Practically Perfect
by Succi
Summary: Sherlock drags Molly along to investigate a case of two missing children, who seem to have been kidnapped by their nanny Mary Poppins. While trying to figure out the meaning behind Supercalifragilisticexplialidocious, they have to come to terms with their feelings. – Set in S3.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: If you don't happen to know Mary Poppins or are not really familiar with it, don't worry, the story will still make sense.

This is for our both dramaturges SG & SS, because SG thinks that _Mary Poppins _ is the scariest movie ever (and after seeing THAT I totally agree: Enter "Scary Mary" on YouTube), and because SS agreed with me that according to that picture ( BC while shooting S3 with umbrella hanging on wires) Benedict Cumberbatch would be a brilliant Mary Poppins.

Ladies, I'm looking forward to another challenging production with you and let's hope that all will stick to our motto: All drama must remain on stage! (They won't, but one can only hope…)

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue, I don't own them so please don't sue.  
I neither own Sherlock Holmes nor Mary Poppins. No copyright infringement intended. All rights belong to their respective owners.

* * *

Molly Hooper loved Sundays, because on Sundays it was socially accepted to sleep in late until afternoon and when you left the flat early in the morning, it seemed all people (except for the crazy tourists) had fled the city – the streets looked deserted. But then, Molly Hooper hated Sundays, because when she was off on weekends, Sundays meant that the next day would be Monday – ergo work again. So basically Molly Hooper whished that Sundays would be endless. She was constantly torn between not doing anything at all like reading or watching telly the whole day or going to a park or cleaning the flat. So most Sundays she spent half of the day cleaning, having a quick walk through the nearest park (so her conscience was at ease that she had spent some time outside) and the other half curled up on her sofa.

At least now she didn't feel bad anymore for sleeping in late. Tom had been a morning person, hence he had made her a bad conscience by telling her stuff like, "The early bird catches the worm." Once she had been so mad at him (she was definitely **not **a morning person) that she had snapped she was no bird, therefore she found the idea of catching a worm disgusting. When she thought about it, it occurred to her that this must have been another good reason why it had been wise to break it off with Tom. She nodded to herself and turned back to her book on her lap, since Molly Hooper did not want to consider the real reason behind the end of her engagement. It was not that she did not know it, it was that she knew all too well.

So as Molly was just about to start with the last chapter of her book, her phone vibrated, signalling a text. She reached over to the coffee table and retrieved her mobile, her eyes still on the page in front of her. Absently she opened her in-box and only when she saw who the sender was, her full attention went from the book to the device in her right hand.

PACK STAFF FOR 5 DAYS. YOU'RE GOING ON A CASE WITH ME. SH

She stared at the text. _Is he out of his mind? _

So she texted back:  
I'LL HAVE TO WORK TOMORROW. MH

His answer was too quick. She was sure he had already typed it before she had sent her reply.

NO YOU DON'T. CHECKED WITH MIKE STAMFORD. SH

Dumbfounded she stared hat her phone. _He's such a haughty bastard! _

She thought about what she could possibly reply, when the vibration of the mobile signalled another text.

STOP WASTING TIME BY STARING AT YOUR PHONE. CAR WILL PICK YOU UP IN 30 MINUTES. SH

She sighed deeply, cursing inwardly for giving into him once again, put the book and blanket aside and went to get dressed properly and pack some stuff.

* * *

Exactly 29 minutes later Molly Hooper was standing on the pavement in front of her building, a small suitcase in hand, waiting for the ominous car to arrive. Since she had no idea where Sherlock was dragging her, she had packed a few warm jumpers and lighter clothes as well. She had never been with Sherlock on a case for longer than a day, hence she had no idea what to bring with her. Of course she had packed her toiletries and pen and paper to make notes, but apart from that she had been quite clueless. She would have probably packed a gun or a knife, but none of these items was in her possession. Well, she could have taken a kitchen knife with her, but she had figured it would have looked a bit stupid.

Exactly 30 minutes after Sherlock's last text a black Jaguar came to a halt in front of her.

_A black Jaguar?! Are you kidding me? Must be for dramatic effects… _

The driver's door opened and a chauffeur got out. He walked over to her.  
"Doctor Hooper." He tipped his cap.  
A puzzled, "Hello," was all Molly could muster. The chauffeur took the suitcase from her hand and put it in the boot. He opened the back door and gestured her to get it. Molly could only stand there and stare at the man.

_This feels like an odd mixture between a sleazy spy film and a mad version of "Driving Miss Daisy." _

All of a sudden a dreadful thought entered her mind: _What if this is just a trick and this has nothing to do with Sherlock? Wouldn't he pick me up with a taxi, or tell me to meet him at Baker Street? _

But before she could think about how to get her suitcase back and escape the chauffer, a deep, impatient voice rang out from the dark interior of the car, "Molly, will you stop worrying and get into the car?! We don't have all day."  
There was a pause and then a low, "Please," was added.  
So she smiled shyly at the chauffer who was still waiting by her side and got into the car.

The seats were of black leather and the car smelled new. Her door was closed and she turned to look at the tall man next to her. His expression was as unreadable as ever. He gave her a quick once over and she knew he was deducing her. She didn't feel uncomfortable about that anymore. She was used to it. That was what he did, that was how he was. And even if he did find things he did not appreciate of while deducing her, he had kept them to himself since the fall.  
_Well, most of the time… _  
She knew he was making an effort and it was probably quite hard for him.

So she let him deduce her (she figured she was quite an easy read for him) and although she did not expect him to greet her after he was finished, she said, "Hello Sherlock." He just nodded and turned away from her to look straight ahead.

A few minutes passed in silence while the streets of London passed by and Molly was waiting for the consulting detective to explain to her why she was here. But he remained silent and unmoving, looking out of his window. Molly was starting to feel irritated.  
"So, you're gonna fill me in what this is all about?"  
He did not even turn away from the window.  
"Later."  
Molly was a patient soul, but she had decided for herself while he had been gone that she wouldn't allow him to toss her around again when he returned eventually. She knew she did not always succeed, but she was trying and now would be a good time to set some boundaries.  
She took a deep breath and stated, "Sherlock, I can't just run off with you like that to solve a case!"  
Her steady tone made him turn to her. His voice had the note that meant don't-be-ridiculous, "Why not? You've got free time from Bart's, no fiancé anymore and your neighbour loves to look after Toby. She's even lonelier than you are."

_So much for keeping his deductions to himself and not insulting me... _

Her voice was louder than she had intended, "I am not lonely Sherlock, I chose to be on my own, and... I... I..." She realized that she started to stammer again. She hated him for doing that to her. She saw the chauffer's eyes in the rear-view mirror. But he averted his gaze as soon as her eyes met his.  
Sherlock's face was a blank mask. He knew she was not finished and was waiting for her to go on. She hated him for that as well.  
She closed her eyes for a moment, before she opened them again and asked, her voice being not as calm as she would've liked, "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just don't **want **to come with you?"  
"No." The smugness war coming off him in waves and she wanted to punch him then and there.  
And what he said next, didn't alter her wish, "You are just mad, because you know it's true."  
For a moment she actually considered just opening the door and jumping out of the car.

_That would leave you stunned, Sherlock Holmes! _

The mental image of his face if she actually did that helped her to keep her anger under control. He was right, she would always come running when he needed her. She knew it and he knew it as well. It was not his fault.

He kept looking at her. She raked a hand over her face in a frustrated gesture.

_God, if it already starts like this, how is it going to be tomorrow, or the day after? _

She tried again, and this time her voice was considerably calmer, "Well, so why me? What about John?"

"John is not available."  
She waited for further explanation, but it was in vain.  
The only thing he added to the topic was, "And I couldn't stand his babble about babies all the time. It's so tedious and boring."  
Molly couldn't help but chuckle a bit at that. She could hardly wait to see Sherlock babysitting the little Watson-baby. The image was so weird, it was almost disturbing. But somehow Molly was sure Sherlock would be good at it. Totally clumsy at first and in his odd way, but still good – like his best man speech.

She went on, "Can't you do it on your own?"  
He snorted. "Of course I can! But there would be no one to witness my brilliance and deliver it to posterity."  
He smiled his smug smile, but Molly could see it was forced. She had learned to distinguish a real Sherlock-smile from a fake one early on, even if he had not known she could for a long time. But now he did and so he dropped it and added a bit sheepishly (if Sherlock Holmes was capable of sounding like that), "After the Moriarty thing I promised Lestrade not to take on cases involving missing children alone."  
"And you assume, because I am a woman, I have to love children and am good with them?!" She did not know why she had snapped at him again, and he didn't either, because he hastened to explain himself, "No! But since you're a person who knows more about human nature than I do, I thought your insight might be helpful. Additionally you seemed to enjoy our last case together, so I figured you'd want to help me again. But if you're not interested, fine… I can find myself someone else." Now he sounded like a sulking child. He almost pouted.  
That made her calm down again. She could sense that he hated making that promise to Lestrade, but Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not true to his word, so he had to ask someone who was more familiar with human interaction than he was – which were probably most of the people on the planet – yet still he seemed to have given it some thought and finally had chosen her. Maybe her mind was just making it up and she was interpreting way too much into his actions, but she couldn't help but feel slightly flattered.  
She stated in a soft voice, "Of course I'd like to help you."  
The sulky expression left his features and for a split second Molly thought she saw a gleam of happiness in his eyes.  
She sat straight up and asked again, "So, what is this case all about?"  
Sherlock put on his cool, detached mask he wore when being on a case, and started to explain.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for all the kind words! I'm curious if anyone is able to spot all the "Mary Poppins" quotes and references – The game is on! :-)

* * *

Sherlock explained the case in his typical short clipped, fast paced way, so that Molly had to concentrate to follow up. The bottom line was: Lestrade had asked him to help them with a case of two missing children. The parents had asked for Sherlock and the reason why the police was more or less forced to comply with their wish was, because the father held a high position on one of the biggest banks in London. The last time the children had been seen was while having a walk through the park with their Nanny. As it turned out the black Jaguar had been sent by the family and would take them directly to the house in one of the noble suburbs of London.

Just as Sherlock had finished his explanation, the car turned left into a wide street. Molly spotted a sign that read _CHERRY TREE LANE_.  
The pathologist couldn't help but exclaim happily, "Cherry Tree Lane?! What a lovely name!"  
Sherlock made a face and snorted, "That sounds like a fictive street out of a children's book."  
Molly turned to him and crossed her arms. "You're a grumpy old bastard."  
He mimicked her gesture and stated, "I'm not old!"

_Is he mocking me, or… _

But before Molly could contemplate, the car had come to a halt and her door was opened. She got out and saw Sherlock do the same. As she was standing on the pavement, her gaze drifted over the houses. It was clearly a very expensive neighbourhood and nomen est omen: There were cheery trees everywhere. It was beautiful.  
She heard the car drive off behind her and at that moment she realized that her suitcase was still in the boot. Shocked she turned around to almost collide with Sherlock who seemed to read her thoughts as usual and answered her unasked question, "Don't worry. You'll get your suitcase later." And before she could ask what he meant with "later", he opened the fence gate to number 17 and now his tone got impatient, "We should get inside. The sooner we talk to the annoying parents, the sooner we can leave again."

Molly blinked at him, because for a second the thought crossed her mind that Sherlock did not seem to care about the missing children at all.

_But he is Sherlock… _

She entered the front yard behind him, when they heard a voice from above, "The wind has changed! The wind's in the east!" Molly and Sherlock turned into the direction the voice was coming from and spotted a man looking out of the window of the top floor in the neighbouring house. He had a white beard and wore a sailor hat. Both must have looked quite confused, because the man repeated his shouting, "The wind has changed! The wind's in the east!" The pathologist turned to Sherlock with a questioning gaze, who only shook his head. "Seems like he and my brother have read the same book about the east wind."

He rang the doorbell and seconds later the door was opened by a maid with a Rubenesque figure. She took a step aside and gestured them to come in. She went to Molly to help her with her coat, when Sherlock commanded, "Keep it on. I doubt we'll be staying." The maid raised her eyebrows and Molly looked on the floor embarrassed.  
The maid cleared her throat. "Well, if you will follow me into the sitting room? Mr and Mrs Banks will be here in a second." She guided the consulting detective and the pathologist into the sitting room and then left through another door.

The room was enormous and Molly couldn't help but stare at the posh furniture and decoration. Molly had never been in a house like that before and so she wandered around with her mouth wide open. Sherlock, however, was totally unimpressed. He remained standing behind the couch and watched Molly with a slight amusing smile on his lips.

"This is… wow… I mean…", the pathologist stammered in awe.  
Sherlock shrugged. "Well, it's not exactly Buckingham Palace. Still it's clean."  
She whirled around to face him. "Well, that's as close as a girl like me can get to Buckingham Palace."  
"I can tell Mycroft to do a tour with you."  
"I'd rather have a tour with you," she said in a casual tone, clearly not thinking what she was implying.  
His eyes went wide. Only know she seemed to register what her exact words had been, because she turned bright red. "I… I meant… What I meant was…"  
But before the blushing pathologist could stutter on, an elegant woman and a tall man in their forties entered the room. The woman wore a Chanel suit and the man an expensive looking suit. His expression was stern, whereas the woman's eyes were downcast. It was obvious that she had been crying and was trying her best to hold herself together. The man did not appear to be shaken at all – which left Molly a bit puzzled – given the circumstances.

Molly went to stand beside Sherlock, because she didn't want the man and the woman to think she had been staring at and touching various objects in the room (which she had). The man introduced himself, and his tone was as fierce, as Molly had expected, "I'm George Banks and this is my wife Winifred Banks. Thank you for coming Mr Holmes and..." He looked at Molly and drew up an expectant eyebrow. She opened her mouth, but realis ed that she didn't really know what to answer. Sure, she knew her name was Molly Hooper, but what should she answer in case he would ask her why she was here?

When Mr Banks didn't get an answer, he asked, "I don't assume you to be Dr Watson?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man's attempt at a joke and clarified, "Hardly. This is my pathologist Dr Molly Hooper."  
Molly's head snapped to Sherlock. She did not know if she should feel embarrassed, flattered or cross. All she knew was that his answer had come totally unexpected for her.  
"You got your own pathologist?" Molly could not tell if Mr Banks was impressed or amused. Either way, Sherlock did not seem to care, because he started his interrogation, "Would you tell us when you've last seen your children?"  
Mr Banks looked at the consulting detective in a calculating way. "Sebastian already told me that you have your own methods."  
"Then he has told you as well that I don't like to waste time."  
For the first time Mrs Banks looked up from the floor and began to speak. Her voice was low and conveyed the terror she was feeling, "Why would you need a pathologist? Our children are just missing."  
"They are for now. One never knows when a pathologist can come in handy." Molly could not believe what Sherlock had just said. Neither could Mrs Banks, because she went white as the wall. Said pathologist hasted to repair the damage as much as possible, "What Sherlock means, is I have a lot of experience in identifying possible evidence and fibres, which may be useful in this case. He was in no way implying that your children will not be found safe and sound." Sherlock's brows went heavenwards during her speech. He had not known Molly to be such a convincing liar, but then again, she had mastered to let everyone believe she was mourning his death for two years. Mrs Banks seemed to calm down a little.  
Sherlock cleared his throat, "Now that's settled, could we go back to the matter at hand? When was the last time your children have been seen?"  
The voice of the woman in the Chanel suit was much more collected now, "Jane and Michael went to the park with the nanny. They wanted to fly a kite."

Molly got pen and paper out of her kitbag to make notes.

_Good thing, I didn't put them into my suitcase! _

The last time she had helped Sherlock with a case he had told her that he didn't need her to make notes (she knew he stored everything relevant to the case in his mind), but she liked to do it nevertheless. It helped her focus. And as opposed to the consulting detective she did not have an enormous mind palace to store every fact- she had to look them up from time to time.

The woman went on, "And then they... they just vanished. They didn't come back."  
"People don't just vanish," Sherlock scolded her.  
Needless to say that the poor woman was shocked by his harsh tone. Molly cleared her throat next to him, to let him know that he should mind his words. He seemed to understand, because his tone considerably softened when he went on, "So the two children were last seen with the nanny? How long has this nanny been here for?"

Mrs Banks looked embarrassed. "Not for very long. We... we ... it was not easy to find a suitable nanny for Jane and Michael. They are adorable children Mr Holmes, but..."  
Mr Banks harshly interrupted his wife, "Now don't beat around the bush Winifred! The point is we've had 6 nannies in the last 4 months." He looked pointedly at his wife. "The children, servants and household are your domain. All I ask for are precision and order. Is that too much to ask for? But you can't even manage that!"

Tears formed in Mrs Banks' eyes and threatened to fall. Molly could only stare at the husband and she decided then and there that she resented him. Even Sherlock didn't approve of the behaviour of Mr Banks and looked coldly at him when he resumed his interrogation, "So you haven't known this new nanny for long?"  
"No." His tone did not indicate in the slightest that he felt sorry for snapping at his wife.  
Sherlock sighed. "Did it ever occur to you that she has anything to do with the disappearance of your children?"  
Mrs Banks was scandalized, "Mary Poppins? No way, she's practically perfect in every way!"  
Sherlock's tone was smug, "Then maybe you should ask yourself, why she has disappeared as well."  
He turned to Molly, who had followed the conversation by looking from one speaker to the other while making notes in between.  
"Come on Molly, this is not even a three. I need to have a word with Sebastian and Lestrade about that."

He ignored Mr Banks, made a step towards his wife, pattered her awkwardly on the shoulder and said, "Don't worry, Mrs Banks with a little money you'll get back your children in no time."  
He passed her and his husband to walk out the door. They stood there dumbfounded while Molly hastened to put away her pen and paper, mumble an embarrassed, "Goodbye!" and hurried after the consulting detective.

* * *

She found Sherlock standing on the pavement in front of the house waving a taxi. Molly came to a halt beside him. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"  
"Getting us a taxi, obviously."  
She rolled her eyes. "You know exactly that's not what I'm talking about. You can't just leave! Their children are missing!"  
"As you will see I can, and I will."  
A taxi stopped and Sherlock opened the door.  
"Don't worry, the children will be back soon." He got into the car.  
Molly remained standing on the pavement, not wanting to give in.  
Realizing she was not following him, Sherlock stuck his head out of the taxi and tried to make his voice sound reassuringly, "It's clearly a typical case of kidnapping. They will get a ransom demand by tomorrow, they'll pay the money and they'll get back the children. End of the story."  
Molly could not believe her ears, "They are children, Sherlock! Can't you imagine how frightened they must be? And how do you know that everything will work out the way you've just said? Even **you** can't possibly know that!"  
Sherlock sighed deeply. Not only him, but the cabby was getting impatient as well, because he snapped, "Now do you want to get in or not, lady?"  
Although Sherlock sent him a resentful glance, he did not say anything and waited for Molly to make up her mind.  
She definitely did not want to let Sherlock Holmes get away so easily, but she could see that standing on the pavement wouldn't help her cause either. So now it was her turn to sigh and get into the taxi as well.  
"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" mumbled the driver.  
This time Sherlock graced him with an, "Oh, shut up!"

After giving the driver Molly's address, Sherlock looked out of his window, purposely avoiding Molly's hard gaze. She was determined to make him stay and help the children.  
"So you're saying the children were kidnapped?"  
"Clearly." He kept starring out of his window.  
"And you think the nanny has something to do with it."  
"She abducted the children. Mary Poppins... I mean... what a name is that?" He shook his head.

_And this from a man who's name is __**Sherlock**__... _

"But what if you're wrong?"  
That made him finally look at her.  
" .not."  
She could not let it go. "But what if you are? Even you are not perfect."  
"I am practically perfect."  
"Just like this Mary Poppins and now she has kidnapped two children."  
Molly was proud of her argumentation, because not even Sherlock Holmes could argue with that.  
His pupils narrowed and Molly knew he was not pleased at all.  
"Fine, so let's assume I am wrong (which is not the case), what else could've happened?"  
Molly's voice was hesitant, because now she felt a little helpless. She did not have time to think about a probable theory of her own. Therefore she suggested the first thing that came to her mind, "Maybe they just ran away?"  
Sherlock seemed a little amused by her suggestion. "In this case, everything is fine."  
The petite pathologist looked horrified, "How can you say something like that?"  
"Maybe they don't want to be found and come back. Look at their parents!"  
"Of course they want to come home, they're children!"  
Sherlock didn't look convinced.  
"Sherlock, do you love your parents?"  
"They are my parents," he stated flatly.  
"See." She knew it wasn't exactly an affirmative answer, but she knew it was the best she would get.

Molly took a deep breath and scooted a little closer to him. She saw the suspicion in his eyes and his body stiffen ever so slightly, but she chose to ignore it, in order to deliver her next lines as calm as possible.  
"Sherlock, all I'm asking you is to stay until tomorrow and wait for the ransom letter to arrive. As soon as we hold it in hands, you can let the police take care of the rest. I just... I need some kind of..."  
"Proof?" His voice was calm as well, and when Molly looked at him she was surprised that she didn't find any trace of anger in his features. He looked almost sympathetic.  
"Yes." She hated how little her voice sounded. She didn't want him to think she doubted his judgement, because she didn't, but her instinct was telling her, that there was more to the case and that they needed to stay.  
He looked at her for a long time, his face giving nothing away. And just when Molly was about to give up hope, he turned to the cabbie and ordered, "Change in plan, we're going to the Willoughby Hotel, 167 Cherry Tree Lane."


	3. Chapter 3

**Scary Mary 3 **

The Willoughby Hotel was an impressive building in Victorian style. They had passed the rest of the taxi ride in silence, and after Sherlock had paid the driver, Molly followed him inside. As she stepped into the lobby behind him, the thought occurred to her that she was pretty sure she could not afford to stay here. _And I cannot accept Sherlock paying for me, can I? Or does this count as some kind of expenses? _

While the pathologist was still contemplating her dilemma, she came to a halt beside Sherlock, who was about to check them in. He hoped that the Banks had not concluded from his abrupt departure that he was not interested and therefore had cancelled their reservation. It was not a great deal for him to pay for their rooms, but he was sure Molly would object to him paying for her room as well.  
_There's only one way to find out... _

"Good evening Sir, what can I do for you?" _  
_"Good evening. We have a reservation for Holmes."  
Molly looked at him surprised. She had not expected him to have a reservation.  
The desk clerk smiled friendly and began to tab on the keyboard of his computer. After a few seconds he looked back up at Sherlock and informed him, "Yes Sir, we have a reservation for Mr Holmes plus one." At that he eyed Molly curiously, who could not help but blush. For the clerk this seemed to be proof enough that she was indeed his plus one. Hence he did not wait for Sherlock to confirm, but handed Sherlock a form to fill out.

The music in the elevator was a way too slow piano version of _Memory_. The consulting detective and the pathologist were standing side by side, both holding a key card in hand. He was motionless as ever, while she had to keep herself from fidgeting nervously. She did not really know why. It was not that she and Sherlock were about to share a hotel room.  
_We're only staying on the same floor. Get a grip for Christ's sake! _  
Of course Sherlock noticed her nervous attitude, but decided not to comment on it. He knew it would only serve to make it worse.  
He was not surprised when she started a conversation. An if he was honest, he even appreciated it, any distraction from the horrible music was welcomed. He had seriously been contemplating to shoot at the speakers.  
"Sherlock, how come we've had a reservation?"  
"The Banks made it. So don't worry about the money. It's part of the payment."  
Just as the song reached the bridge, the elevator stopped, and while they got out Sherlock added, "But don't make yourself too much at home, because we'll be leaving tomorrow."  
She walked beside him, and they came to a halt in front of two rooms next to each other.  
Sherlock was already sticking in his key card and opening the door, when Molly's voice stopped him. She looked up at him shyly. "Well, I guess, good night, then?"  
He looked at her in his usual detached way, but did not say a word, entered his room and closed the door behind him.  
The pathologist was used to his harsh manners, but that left even her puzzled for a second.

Molly's room was even more beautiful than she had thought it would be. The bedroom alone was as large as her whole flat. There was a bathroom with a shower **and **an enormous bathtub in it.  
_How sad I'm only here for one night... _  
And there at the foot of the bed was her small suitcase. She had totally forgotten about it, but was even happier to have it again.

She decided to have a hot bath and then make herself comfortable with a book or maybe read through her notes of the case. The thought of Jane and Michael made her sad. She didn't want to think about how frightened they must be.

About an hour later, Molly was sitting on her giant bed in her pyjamas (she had picked her nicest ones), reading the notes she had made, when a sudden knock made her jump. She looked around the room, because at first she could not locate where the sound had come from. It had not been the door. When it knocked again she finally realized where the sound was coming from. There was a second door in the wall right next to the headboard of her bed, she had not seen before. Hesitantly she got up and walked over to it. She waited curiously in front of the wooden door, if it would knock again. But instead of a knock, she heard the all too familiar impatient baritone from the other side, "Now would you unlock the door Molly? Standing in front of it won't help either of us."  
She did as asked and the moment she had opened the door, Sherlock strode past her almost colliding with her, a few boxes in his hands.  
Molly could only follow his move flummoxed.  
"We have adjoining rooms. This is a connecting door," she breathed.  
"Canny as ever, Miss Hooper," deadpanned Sherlock and popped himself down on her bed.  
He arranged the boxes and Molly saw chopsticks appear out of nowhere. Sherlock went on, "I don't know if the Chinese place around the corner is any good, but the Hotel did not really have anything to your liking. I brought you Chow mein. Still your favourite, I hope?"  
Molly cleared her throat. "Ah... yes."  
"Good." He looked at her expectantly.  
She had to give herself a mental push and walked over to sit beside him on the bed. She was glad she had left the duvet on the bed before. Hesitantly she took a box and chopsticks in hand, and the moment she opened the box and she smelled the Chow mein, she realized how hungry she really was. She hadn't eaten anything since lunch.  
"Thank you, Sherlock."  
He only nodded and looked condescending at her notes she had left on the bed for a second.  
Of course he refrained from eating anything. Molly figured they were quite a sight: Both sitting on her bed, she in her pyjamas eating Chinese food and him in his black trousers and shirt in a somehow stiff posture, now staring into space. She wondered if that was the usual way evenings on a case with John Watson went as well. Somehow she doubted it, and the thought made her snigger.  
That made Sherlock turn to her. "What?"  
She only shook her head. "Nothing."  
He sighed. "I hate it when people say that. It can't be nothing, otherwise you wouldn't laugh, now, would you?"  
Molly figured he was right, but decided to change the subject, "This Sebastian you've mentioned in the Banks' house before, is he the one from 'The Blind Banker'?".  
Sherlock's voice was as bored as ever, "God, does everyone know John's blog by heart?"  
Molly blushed visibly, because he might not be totally wrong about that.  
Still she defended herself, "No, that was just the first logical conclusion I could draw."  
That pleased Sherlock visibly, and he explained, "Yes, he was talking about Sebastian Wilkes. They used to work together at the same bank, and Sebastian told him about me when he heard Banks' children went missing. Much to the police' annoyance, I may add." It clearly amused him, because a small smile tucked on the corners of his mouth. Molly smiled in spite of herself as well.  
She stuffed another chopstick full of noodles in her mouth, before she continued speaking, "The Banks' house is beautiful! They even have a real housekeeper."  
"Well, there's no such a thing as an unreal housekeeper..."  
Molly smirked. She had hoped he would say something along those lines. "What about Mrs Hudson?"  
Sherlock smiled as well. "I leave her to the impression she's **not** my housekeeper. But we all know better than that, don't we?"  
Molly was glad to be able to have that kind of normal conversation now with Sherlock Holmes. He tolerated her company. And on rare occasions like this she was tempted to say he almost enjoyed it.  
After some more chopsticks of noodles she stated, "This Mr Banks is awful though. The way he treats his wife... 'The children, servants and household are your domain,'" she made an impersonation of Mr Banks' voice, and Sherlock had to admit, she didn't do too bad. Molly went on, "I mean, we're not in 1910 anymore!"  
Sherlock made a grunting noise, and Molly could not be sure if it was meant to be affirmative or just indifferent.  
"They seem to be quite old fashioned in general. I mean, who's flying a kite nowadays?"  
Molly put the chopsticks she was about to guide to her mouth, back into the box, and replied in a firm voice bordering on hurt, "I always went with my father. I still have my kite. It is a beautiful red kite with streamers."  
Sherlock's brow knitted in confusion, "Why? You're not a child anymore. It's not like you're about to go fly a kite one Sunday afternoon."  
But before Molly could retort something, realization dawned on his face and he said, "Oh I see: sentimental value."  
Molly finished the last bit of food and went to throw the boxes into the bin. When she came back to sit on the bed again, she asked, "Did you never fly a kite?"  
It was impossible for Sherlock to miss the pity in her voice. He was not sure if he resented it or felt oddly comforted by it. He decided to settle on resentment – that was familiar, so he stated with extra carelessness, "If I did I've deleted it."  
Now she sounded almost scandalized. "How could you delete something like that? It feels like you're lighter than air, like you can dance on the breeze." Her face was lit up with the memory and although Sherlock's mind was telling him to say something to belittle her sentiment, he couldn't bring himself to. Something in his chest constricted at the idea of it. He told himself that it must have had something to do with the broken rib he had earned in the last case.  
With her next question Molly's tone was curious, "Did you have a nanny?"  
"Why are you asking?" Sherlock Holmes was probably the only person in the world one had to explain the way a personal conversation went.  
"Just… I'm interested. I don't know that kind of stuff about you."  
„Well, of course not. As opposed to me, you can't deduce it." Molly had to blink at how derogatory he sounded. She could not explain it: One minute ago everything seemed to be fine, and now he was back to being his old condescending self.  
Before Molly could think about what to retort or how to set it right again, he got up from the bed and made his way towards the connecting door.  
"I'll see you in the lobby at half eight," he stated.  
The pathologist only nodded, although she knew he could not see her, because his back was turned towards her.  
He turned the nob and opened the door, but remained standing in her room. There was a pause in which Molly did not dare to move, because she instinctively knew he was battling with himself if he should say something more.  
Eventually he did, with his back still towards her, "When you said you'd rather have a tour with **me** through Buckingham Palace were you flirting with me?"  
Now Molly thanked God he did not look at her, because she blushed a deep scarlet, and her mouth opened and closed a few times. All that came out was a helpless, "I… I was.. I..."  
He cut off her stammering and ordered, "Don't do that again. It's …" The words distracting, irritating and tempting came to his mind, but he refused to utter any of them out loud, because they came dangerously close to what he really felt. So instead he settled for, "… inappropriate."  
With that he finally stepped out of her room into his own, closing the door behind him, but not locking it. He left behind a quite clueless Molly Hooper who did not know what to make of all of this. The only thing she knew was that she would not lock the connecting door either.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks for reading, reviewing, alerts, etc. Big thanks to all the guests to whom I can't get back via PM!**

**And a warm hug especially to all the people who wrote me PMs in order to find all the quotes and references from/to Mary Poppins. There are quite some experts out there. I have to be careful what I write ;-)**  
**So don't worry, there will be more and quite some in this chapter.**

**Again, I don't own neither Sherlock nor Mary Poppins. No copyright infringement intended. **

* * *

On the way to the Banks' residence Molly spotted the smiling faces of Jane and Michael Banks on the missing person posters along the streets. She recognized their faces from photographs she had seen in the house yesterday. She was quite sure she even had seen the one they had used for the poster. It had been in a silver frame standing on the dresser in the sitting room. Molly suddenly felt sick and wished she had not had the second cup of coffee for breakfast. Not even the blooming trees that gave Cherry Tree Lane its name could help to make her feel better.

Sherlock was silently sitting beside her with a vacant stare – he was in his mind palace.

This time not the housekeeper, but Mrs Banks herself opened the front door. She was wearing a Chanel suit again, but this time a blue one. It made her look even paler and the circles under her eyes even darker. On the lapel of her jacket was a pink button that read "Votes for women." Given the sexual stereotyping Molly and Sherlock had witnessed yesterday, both were surprised when they read it. Of course Sherlock's face didn't convey that – it was the ever inscrutable mask.  
As soon as Mrs Banks recognized the visitors, she called over her shoulder, "Mrs Brill please bring some tea into the study for Dr Hooper and Mr Holmes."  
She gestured the visitors to come inside, and they did as asked. Mrs Banks took Molly's coat, but Sherlock kept his Belstaff on.

Mrs Banks guided them into the study and gestured them to have a seat. Just in time the housekeeper Mrs Brill entered with tea and biscuits on a tray. She served it and left the room.

Only then did Mrs Banks start to speak, "I'm so glad you're here Mr Holmes. We almost feared you might've left by now." She took a sip of tea and Molly did the same.  
"I hope the hotel is to your liking? We booked two rooms with a connecting door, as you requested." Molly was glad she had already swallowed, because otherwise she would have spit her tea. Did she hear correctly: Sherlock **wanted **to have a connecting door?!  
_Don't interpret something in it. Maybe he's doing that with John as well. No wonder everyone thinks they're a thing…  
_  
Sherlock did not address the issue, but changed the subject, "I assume you've already gotten the ransom demand, and the police has already been here."_  
_If she thought it rude that he didn't answer her question, Mrs Banks didn't show, but answered in a grave voice, "Yes, we did. Mrs Brill found the letter in the sitting room this morning. The police had a look at it and at the room, but they don't have any idea how it got there. There are no signs of a burglary. I was just about to call you and suddenly you appeared on my doorstep – like the wind had blown you here. Just like Mary Poppins."  
Molly retrieved pen and paper again and scribbled the facts down. Sherlock glanced shortly at her but did not comment on it. He thought it useless, because he was not planning on taking the case.  
Mrs Banks looked devastated when she stared into her empty mug. "I fear the police has taken the original letter, because it's evidence, but I have a copy." She held it up for Sherlock so see.  
Molly wondered for a second how she did get a copy, but then was too observed in studying the letter more closely.  
Sherlock on the other hand did not seem interested at all, because he only just let his eyes scan over the paper for a second and concluded, "As everything's according to my prediction, the police should be able to handle it. Just pay the ransom and you'll get your children back." He rose and walked towards the door.  
Mrs Banks looked shell-shocked, "What?"  
Sherlock turned to face her and rolled his eyes, "It's only 2 Millions. You should afford it quite easily, and I think your children should be worth it."  
Mrs Banks' face turned even paler, and Molly did not know if she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole or to punch Sherlock Holmes in the face; maybe both.  
"You can't just leave, Mr Holmes!" Mrs Banks did not understand a thing, and Molly could not blame her. The pathologist got up and walked over to Sherlock trying desperately to think of something that would help the situation.  
_What would John do now?  
_  
Sherlock judged her coming over to him wrong, interpreting she was ready to leave with him, because he turned to the door again, but Mrs Banks said again, "You can't just leave! Just think how you would feel if it were your children." The way she said it and pointed to the two of them was so desperate that even Sherlock was frozen in place.  
Molly blushed once again and wanted to set it right that they were not a couple, but to her astonishment Sherlock turned and stated, "Fine I'll take the case. I need to have a look at the nursery."

When Mrs Banks, Molly and Sherlock made their way up the stairs to the nursery, the front door opened, and Mr Banks walked in. He spotted the three of them, and they stopped their ascent on the landing. Mrs Banks fumbled nervously on the lapel of her jacket, and Sherlock knew she getting rid of the button.

After successfully pocketing it, she ran down the stairs to greet her husband.  
"Oh darling! It's terrible! Did the police come to the bank?"  
But Mr Banks more or less ignored his wife and sent a grim look up to Molly and Sherlock.  
"So Mr Holmes and **his **pathologist are back then?" The resentment he felt was blatantly obvious in his voice.  
Sherlock kept his cool façade. "We need to have a look at the nursery, and I would appreciate it if you won't interfere."

Mr Banks' face contorted in anger, "I'm not sure I..."  
"I'm not sure I care," Sherlock interrupted coolly.  
Mr Banks' mouth set in a stern expression. His wife was standing by his side, looking utterly helpless. It was plain to see that she feared her man would lose his temper. Molly stood frozen in place. The air was so thick one could have cut it with a knife.  
Before it became unbearable, Sherlock asked in his usual interrogation tone, "Where did this Mary Poppins come from? I need to see her references later."  
"She didn't show me any," Mrs Banks answered, suddenly remembering how to speak.  
"You hired a nanny without looking at her references?" Molly knew, her thinking it was irresponsible was showing indubitably in her voice.  
"She was very convincing," the woman in the Chanel suite sheepishly relied.  
"I bet she was..." Sherlock's comment was not really helpful.  
George Banks threw his arms up in exasperation when he turned to his wife. "That's exactly what I mean! You need to show your authority when interviewing potential staff."  
It looked like Mrs Banks was shrinking next to him.  
The consulting detective rose to speak again, clearly trying to get rid of the master of the house.  
"I think it would be best if you'll go back to the bank, Mr Banks. Your assistant will call you in a few seconds, telling you there's gonna be a last-minute meeting in an hour."  
"You think you know everything, don't you Mr Homes?!"  
"I couldn't agree more," Sherlock replied nonchalant.  
As on cue the phone in Mr Banks' pockets rang, and he scowled when he looked on the screen.  
He pointed a finger at Sherlock. "I want to be informed about every progress in the case, is that clear? I am the sovereign here!" Sherlock's answer was to turn around and climb the remaining steps towards the nursery.

"You told us yesterday that you've had 6 nannies in four months. Why?" Standing in the nursery Molly felt brave enough to ask some questions of her own, while Sherlock was wandering around, touching and sniffing at things in his typical odd way. Granted, Molly had asked the question to distract Mrs Banks from watching Sherlock's every move suspiciously. It worked only partly, because now her eyes were darting from Molly to Sherlock and back.  
Mrs Banks answered sheepishly, "What can I say, Jane and Michael played pranks at them all the time. They didn't like having a nanny and wanted to get rid of them." She gave that a second thought, "Although with Mary Poppins it seemed to work better. They seemed to like her and respect her."  
Sherlock picked up a carpet bag that was standing on the table in the middle of the room and was looking at it from below – as if he was wondering if the bottom had a hole in it. It looked really peculiar. Judging the look on Mrs Banks' face she thought so too, but she only commented on it by saying, "That was Mary Poppins' bag."  
"Obviously." Sherlock put the carpet bag back on the table.  
Mrs Brill's voice was heard from below calling Mrs Banks. She excused herself and left.

Molly began her own investigation through the nursery. As opposed to Sherlock she had no idea what she was looking for, so she mostly settled for picking up some of the toys and looking at them.  
"So, most of the nannies have not been to Mr Banks liking – he thought them too nice."  
Sherlock only answered with an absent, "Mmhh."  
A photograph in a wooden frame caught Molly's attention, and she picked it up. It showed the two children and an elderly woman with a stern expression.  
Molly pointed to the woman in the picture.  
"This one looks quite cross." Sherlock came to join her and looked at the photo as well.  
"Never confuse efficiency with a liver complaint."  
He turned, went to the bathroom and started fumbling through the cabinets.  
Molly put the photograph back and followed him.  
When she entered the bathroom, he presented a brown bottle to her that was labelled MEDICINE.  
"I wonder why **I **don't label my bottles in the morgue that precisely..." Molly sniggered.  
Sherlock flashed her a sardonic smile, opened the bottle, sniffed and held it under her nose to do the same. The moment she took a sniff, she almost coughed. She made a disgusted face and handed the bottle back to the consulting detective.  
"That's alcohol!"  
"Rum punch more precisely. Looks like our practically perfect nanny wasn't so practically perfect after all." Sherlock shrugged. "But then again, when having to deal with two annoying children 24/7, alcohol is probably the only solution."  
For a second Molly looked horrified, but when looking at him, he smirked at her.  
A smile crept on her face as well. "You're joking." It sounded like an odd mixture between a statement and a question. There was a hint of mischief in his eyes.  
"Now figure why I need nicotine..."


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of the day had been tedious for Molly. They had questioned all the other nannies and Sherlock had gotten more and more impatient from nanny to nanny. During the last interrogation Molly had honestly been thinking about sending him from the room.

On the way to the hotel they had picked up something to eat for Molly – Sherlock not ordering anything was to be expected.

Now Molly was sitting on her bed, eating the last remains of her food and staring at the copy of the facial composite the police had given her. They had made it according to the description of Mrs Banks, and Molly could not help but note that this Mary Poppins was quite pretty. So far nobody had recognized her – the only thing they knew was that Mary Poppins was not her real name. _What a surprise... _

Her whole persona was nebulous. The only thing everyone agreed upon was that she had been seen carrying an umbrella with her all the time. Instantly Molly had thought that she must be friends with Mycroft Holmes.

After finishing her dinner Molly thought about how things had gone so far: No doubt, she loved being on a case with Sherlock Holmes, but he was difficult to say the least. More than once today he had turned from playful (almost nice) to cold in mere seconds. He really was playing her hot and cold, and Molly did not know how to cope with it. Sure, he had been flirting with her before in order to get something, but this was somehow different. She could not even say why, she just felt it. And it was **not **helping her to get over Sherlock Holmes.  
She sighed deeply. When she had decided to help him she had told herself not to be tossed around by Sherlock Holmes. Now she was thinking of a strategy to keep to her resolution. _Maybe it would be good to set up some rules_?  
Molly knew well enough that it did not help to have rules only for herself. She needed to set some boundaries. And Sherlock needed to know about them. Therefore she took pen and paper and began to write.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was sitting on his bed bare foot, his eyes closed, joining the tips of his fingers pedagogically, to form an arc with his hands, when Molly walked in hesitantly through the connecting door after knocking a few times and getting no answer. He heard her entering and coming to a halt in front of him, but ignored her deliberately. He was on to something, and maybe she would leave again if he acted like he hadn't realized she was in the room. He heard her shuffling around nervously, and he knew without a doubt that she was biting her lip.  
After a few moments of silence, she cleared her throat and asked tentatively, "Sherlock?"  
He ignored her, although he was pretty sure it was pointless since she would not leave him be.  
"Sherlock, I need to talk to you," she tried again, and this time her voice was full of determination.  
Sherlock decided that he could as well talk to her about what he had found out – he had come to the realization that he liked to talk about cases with her. The second that thought entered his mind, he told himself that it had nothing to do with wanting to show off in front of her. _Not at all! _  
So he reluctantly opened his eyes and drew an exaggerated breath to let her know that he was not pleased to be disturbed. To make his point absolutely clear he told her, "God, if Shakespeare would've stayed with you he wouldn't have finished a single sonnet!"  
To his surprise she did not flinch but put her hands on her hips and retorted, "How convenient you don't want to write a sonnet."  
He tried his hardest not to show his surprise – and yes interest – about her comeback on his face.

Molly opened her mouth again to address the reason for her visit, but Sherlock beat her to it.  
"Mary Poppins had a partner in crime."  
Of course it took the pathologist a moment to register what he had said.  
"Why do you think so?"  
He held up the copy of the ransom demand that had been lying next to him on the bed. Molly had not even known he had taken it with him.

"The letter was obviously written by a man. Male handwriting's quite distinctive."  
When Molly did not comment on it, he went on, "She could've hardly pulled that thing off on her own."  
Now Molly chimed in, "I don't understand: We know when the kidnapper will be at the park in 2 days in order to collect the ransom. Why won't the police just arrest him there?"  
Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "If kidnapping cases would be that easy, there would be no kidnappings anymore. The kidnappers want us to put the money in a bin in park – we have no idea what her partner in crime looks like – he could be every man disguised as a homeless person, digging in the rubbish bin. Additionally it's only logical that Mary Poppins would hurt the children if something was to happen to her partner in crime."  
Molly's face darkened. "How can people do something like that? They are innocent children!"  
Sherlock only shrugged, and his voice didn't show the slightest trace of emotion, "For money, for the game, ..."  
"How can you be so cold?"  
"Practically perfect people never permit sentiment to muddle their thinking."  
"You don't fool me a bit, Sherlock Holmes!"  
She expected him to contradict her vehemently, but to her surprise he did not. Instead she caught the merest glimpse of bewilderment in his eyes. She was not sure if he did care about the missing children, but she knew without a doubt that he was capable of caring, and he did care about certain people, and that was enough for her to believe in him and in the fact that Sherlock Holmes did have a heart.

The silence that had enfolded them, was ended by Sherlock, who held up the letter again and pointed to the right lower corner.  
"Did you see that?" He was all business again. He knew as well as she did that she had not noticed the small writing on the bottom of the page.  
She leaned closer to read out loud, "Supercalifragilisticexplialidocious, " she stumbled over the word.  
She looked at him quizzically. "What's that supposed to mean? It sounds quite... atrocious."  
"I'm not sure. It's not a cipher, nor a skip code, coordinates, ... And it doesn't make sense if you'll read it backwards either. Molly tried desperately to read the word backwards. She had to surrender after the first few letters. It was a horrible tongue twister.  
"Suoicodilaipxecitsiligarfilacrepus," Sherlock said in one breath, as if it was a word he used every day.  
Sherlock retrieved a pen. "We don't know what it means, **if **it means anything at all. But I know this." He underlined three letters with the pen: Supercalifragilisticexplialidoc**IOU**s  
"**I O U**," Molly breathed. She stared at Sherlock.  
"I remember. You where muttering it while you were working on the missing children chase before the fall."  
"Yes. It was a message from Moriarty." The strain in his voice was not lost on the pathologist. Her eyes went wide, and she had to clear the lump in her throat before she could ask, "You think this is Moriarty's doing? But he's dead." Now it was not lost on Sherlock that there was a desperate pleading in her tone.  
"I don't know." His eyes were flat and cold.  
Molly was sure she had never heard Sherlock utter that sentence before. And she did not like it at all.  
Sherlock laid the letter and the pen back down on the duvet beside him.  
"Maybe this means nothing at all," he muttered. "But it was clearly written by a woman. It's not the same handwriting as the rest of the letter."  
Molly had recovered a bit from her initial shock. "Either way, it's a really peculiar word. I wonder how we could have lived this long without it."  
Sherlock gladly joined in on her sarcasm, "I'm sure the Roman Empire only entered the abyss, because those Latin scholars never had a word like this."  
Molly chuckled and enjoyed the fact that now she could have fun like that with Sherlock from time to time.

Suddenly something dawned on Molly. "That's why you were interested in the case all of a sudden, because you've spotted IOU on the ransom letter."  
Sherlock's piercing gaze met hers. He did neither confirm, nor contradict her.

Sherlock Holmes desperately wanted to say yes, but his mouth did not obey. He had to admit he felt something akin to pride at Molly for making such a logical conclusion. It would have been the most logical explanation for his decision for taking the case, but it would have been a lie, and he had decided not to lie to Molly Hooper anymore. His decision to take the case had not been a logical one; on the contrary. He absolutely refused to dwell on the reason behind his decision. Therefore he remained silent and tried to put on the best expressionless mask he could muster.  
Understandably Molly did not really know what to make of it, but took his silence for affirmation.

When it became too hard to bear, Molly changed the subject, "Mr and Mrs Banks are quite a couple, don't you think? It's painfully obvious who's whose significant other."  
Sherlock snorted.  
"And what was that with this 'Votes for women'- button all about?"  
Of course Sherlock had already done his research and deductions on the Banks family. "She used to be an actress before she married Mr Banks. He never approved of her profession, so she had given up on it. But given her 'performance' while we were there, it's hardly a pity. Now she's doing charity work and is politically active in women's rights."  
"But hiding it from her husband and becoming totally mousy once he enters the room? Quite a contrast, don't you think?"  
"Some women have trouble showing their real self when in the presence of someone they admire."  
That gave Molly a pause, because she realized in horror that all of a sudden the conversation had taken a turn from Mr and Mrs Banks to Mr Holmes and Ms Hooper. Although his statement was quite self-righteous, it hadn't sounded like that. It had almost sounded understanding, empathetic, ... His eyes weren't cold and flat anymore, and the subtext was so loud that Molly thought she would go deaf.  
That made her think of her initial reason for coming to his room. She had wanted to set boundaries, so that screaming subtext would not show its face again.  
She cleared her throat. The warmth in Sherlock's eyes left momentarily. He did not know what she was about to say, but he had the unmistakable feeling, he would not like it.  
"Okay, so if **this**," she gestured from him to her and back, "should work, we'll have to set up some rules."  
"Why?" His brow furrowed.  
"Because otherwise at least one of us won't survive this trip."  
_Because either you'll break my heart, or I'll break your neck. _  
"John didn't have any rules."  
"I'm not John."  
"I hardly noticed..." His cold sarcasm caused a shiver to run down her spine, but she was determined to follow through with her plan. She clutched the paper in the hand behind her back tightly. She did not need to look at her short list (most of it was meant for her eyes only), but it gave her confidence. She needed to hold onto something – and even if it was only a lousy bit of paper.  
Sherlock on the other hand did not understand why Molly was being overly difficult in his eyes. So far everything had been alright. He had not minded her company so far.

Her voice was as adamant as Sherlock had ever heard it. But because he was Sherlock Holmes, and because he knew Molly Hooper very well, he did detect the slight tremor in it. "No leading me on, no manipulating me, no fake-flirting and no lies."  
He blinked at her. "Leading you on? What's that supposed to mean?"  
"Don't play dumb on me Mr Holmes, you know exactly what I mean?" Molly hated that what had been meant as an accusation, sounded more like a question.  
Sherlock went on haughtily, "And I'm fairly certain 'fake-flirting' is not even an existing word."  
"Neither is Supercalifragilisticexplialidocious."Molly did not know why she had said that, because it did not really help her cause, but she hadn't known what else to say in her defence.  
Sherlock studied her, and his brow knitted in concentration. She felt like a specimen under a microscope.

Finally he said, "Just follow my model, and don't Molly-coddle, and we'll be fine."

Now Molly became livid. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock! Don't you dare treat me like that! I have a right to say what I think and what I want. And the only thing I want is for you to treat me with respect. Is that too much to ask for?!"  
His expression fell somewhere between perplexed and chagrined. He did not say a word, and that was answer enough for the pathologist.  
"Fine, I'll be leaving. And I know you're just glad I broke up with Tom, so you'd get all of my attention again, so you could use me again."  
"I'm not using you!" His voice hollered, and Molly was so surprised by the vehemence of his statement that she involuntarily stumbled backwards. Sherlock was on his feet in a second, reaching out his hand, as if trying to steady her, if she should fall. But she did not, and the moment Sherlock realized what he had been doing he snatched his hand back.  
She stared at him while he kept his gaze on the carpet.  
"Alright."  
"Hm?" Molly was not sure if he had really spoken at all.  
He looked up at her, but his eyes were darting around in the room.  
"Alright, I'll agree to your rules."  
A small smile tucked at the corners of Molly's mouth.  
"Okay."  
Finally his eyes settled on hers. "So, you're not leaving?"  
Sherlock hated that he was asking that question, but he needed to make sure. He needed her to say it. He needed reassurance, and he detested himself for it.  
The hurt and anger that had been in her eyes before left and was replaced by the usual kindness. "Of course not."  
"Good." He looked down on the carpet again. Neither of them knew what to say now.  
Molly tried for humour to break the silence. "Mrs Brill told me a joke today: There's this man and he's got a job in a watch factory. He stands about all day and makes faces!"  
She smiled brightly at him, but the consulting detective only shook his head.  
"That's not funny."  
Molly crossed her arms.  
Sherlock's tone was almost archly, "I guess I'll establish a rule as well: No making jokes."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks again for all the lovely support! Finally I've woven Supercali... in. I'm looking forward hearing what you think ;-) **


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock and Molly met again in the lobby of their hotel the next morning. They had spent the rest of the evening before with talking some more about the ominous nanny and Molly had told him more than once that she thought it irresponsible of Mrs Banks not to see references before hiring a nanny. Sherlock pointed out that Mary Poppins would probably have faked some if Mrs Banks would have insisted to see references. Molly had to agree. Everything about the case was quite frustrating: Of course no real person called Mary Poppins existed – clearly a false identity. And so far nobody had recognized her from the facial composite. Every new clue seemed to be a dead end. But of course Sherlock was not frustrated, but delighted by it. The puzzle became more and more complicated, and he loved it.

Their talk had been perfectly normal – considering the argument they had had before, but that was one thing the consulting detective and the pathologist treasured about their friendship: They could always go back to the way it had been before a row.

So after the theories about the meaning behind Supercalifragilisticexplialidocious had gotten more and more absurd, they had decided to call it a night, and Molly had gone back to her room – not locking the connecting door – just like the night before.

Molly was surprised when Sherlock ordered the cabbie to take them to St. Paul's instead of 17 Cherry Tree Lane, and she was even more astounded when he pulled an apple from his coat pocket and took a bite.  
"One might not believe it, but I have to eat from time to time – even when I'm on a case." Although his tone was neutral, he was amused by her astonished expression.  
"I guess not even you can live solely of air and love." The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back.  
Sherlock took another bite and scolded, "Molly, what was the rule about making jokes?"

The pathologist remained silent for the rest of the long taxi ride.

* * *

When they were finally standing in front of St. Paul's Cathedral, Molly dared to speak again, "Sherlock, what are we doing here?"  
"Networking."  
Molly drew up her eyebrows and followed the consulting detective towards the stairs in front of the cathedral.  
As usual a lot of tourists passed them. Molly knew the place well, because Bart's was more or less just around the corner, and she liked to spend her lunch breaks sitting in the small park on the backside of the church watching the tourists. When she preferred to be more on her own, she went to Postman's Park, but she came here more often. Especially after Sherlock's 'suicide' Postman's Park had always made her feel a little depressed: all the signs there telling of people who had given their lives in order to safe someone else's. How could her thoughts not wander to Sherlock when reading those? It hit a little too close to home. That's why she had found refuge in the shadows of St. Paul's during his absence.

Molly's thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock walked up to an old woman dressed in rags. She had long white hair, and her face was mostly hidden by a hood. Molly had seen her every time she had been here. People called her the Bird Woman, because there was always a flock of pigeons surrounding her.  
The woman proffered seeds to Sherlock and Molly and clamoured, "Tuppence a bag. Feed the birds! Feed the birds!"  
Sherlock drew a banknote out of his pocket – way too much for one bag of seeds. He leaned forward and handed her the money, while he whispered something to her. She nodded and handed him the bag. He nodded as well, turned around to Molly and shoved the bag of seeds in her hands.  
"Haven't you heard? Feed the birds."

"What was that all about?" Sherlock and Molly were back in the taxi again, and this time Sherlock had given the cabbie the address of the Banks'.  
"I mean, I know she's probably someone from your homeless network, but how can she help us, when she's more or less living on the door step of St. Paul's?"

"That's her place. It's where she's most useful."  
Obviously Molly's face conveyed the „stop-being-so-cryptic" just fine, because Sherlock began to explain, but not before sighing dramatically, "Mr Banks works in a bank just around the corner from there. And because he is a creature of habit, he usually spends his lunch breaks at the café across the street. Given the circumstances, now that Mary Poppins can't have a look at the on-goings in the house anymore, her partner in crime will try to keep an eye on Mr Banks. The easiest way to do so will be to follow him around St. Paul's."  
Molly could see the logic in this, but still was not totally satisfied with his answer. "But how will the Bird Woman know what to look for? We don't know what he looks like."  
"She will know. I've established her in front of St. Paul's about two years ago. She knows everyone around. She's one of the best. Otherwise I wouldn't have trusted her with that particular area." His tone left no room for argument.  
"Additionally, we'll have his facial composite by the evening."  
Molly knew Sherlock well enough not to ask any more questions. It would have been in vain. She would have to wait and see in time.

* * *

Mrs Banks looked thinner and paler from day to day. No wonder, she was afraid for the lives of her children. She was not wearing a Chanel suit today, but a knee-long dress from another expensive brand. Molly felt a little out of place in her cherry jumper and her wide trousers. She decided the next time she would accompany Sherlock Holmes to a case she would bother with more business-like clothes. If there would be a next time…

Although Mrs Banks was obviously shaken by the events, she tried to put on a smile when she let the consulting detective and the pathologist into 17 Cherry Tree Lane. Molly admired her for the brave face she put up. She was not sure if she could manage that under these circumstances – especially with a husband like Mr Banks.

_How can she love a man like that?  
_  
But then Molly had to think about the tall man beside her and her feelings for him. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! A lot of people were wondering why she still helped him, when he was known to be rude and cold. Still she knew he was so much more than that. And perhaps it was the same with Mr Banks – although Molly really had trouble believing that.

Without much more than a grunted greeting Sherlock strode past Mrs Banks and went straight into the sitting room, where they had been during their first visit. Determined he walked over to the mantelpiece and inspected it more closely. Reluctantly Molly went to his side. He knelt down, leaned forward and looked up the chimney. Mrs Banks shot Molly a questioning gaze, which Molly tried to ignore as best as she could, because she did not know how to respond. She was as clueless as the woman about Sherlock's behaviour. But opposed to Mrs Banks Sherlock inspecting a mantelpiece did not really strike her as odd per se. She had seen him do much weirder stuff. Almost crawling up a chimney and beating a corpse with a riding crop were considered daily business when dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

The consulting detective stood back up and addressed Mrs Banks.  
"The ransom letter was found on the table over there." Although it should have been a question he did not phrase it like one. He pointed to the wooden coffee table. Mrs Banks nodded. He walked backwards a few feet, so that he was standing in front of the mantelpiece looking at it as a whole.  
"The chimney sweep has been here repeatedly in the last couple of weeks."  
Mrs Banks was surprised. "Yes. How did you know, Mr Holmes?"  
Sherlock sounded bored, "It's quite easy to tell if you look at the fireplace."  
Molly looked from Sherlock to Mrs Banks and back. She loved watching him when he was on to something. His zeal was contagious. His eyes had that special gleam, and his face an expression that was almost manic.

"So I figure it has been the same chimney sweep all the time."  
"Yes." Her voice was small.  
"And that didn't strike you as odd?" Now he sounded like he thought her to be imbecile. Molly figured he probably did. There were only a handful of people in this world Sherlock did not find dumb, or boring. And occasionally Molly was not so sure if she belonged to those or not.

Mrs Banks got defensive. "Why should it have? I thought it thoughtful that they always sent the same guy. He was very nice. Gentlemen like him are few."  
Sherlock's voice was dripping with sarcasm, "A vanishing breed…"  
Mrs Banks shot him a mean glance, but went on, "And he always used to hum this nice tune. How did it go?"  
Her eyes went heavenwards as she was clearly concentrating on remembering the song. Suddenly her eyes focused again on Molly and Sherlock, and she sang in a low voice, "Chim chiminey, chim chim cher-ee chim cheroo."  
Sherlock made a face and said in mock astonishment, "I wonder why he didn't become a singer songwriter..."  
That made Molly finally clear her throat to signal him, he was not behaving very well. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but kept further comments about the chimney sweep to himself. Instead he asked, "And what was the name of this gentleman chimney sweep?"  
"His name was Bert." Molly and Sherlock waited for Mrs Banks to tell them the surname, but she did not go on.  
"No surname?" Molly asked.  
Mrs Banks thought about it for a brief moment, before answering, "No, I'm sorry. I can't remember it."  
"But you do remember the company he's worked with?"  
"Yes, Mrs Brill got their card somewhere."  
"Brilliant, we'll need it later." Sherlock was about to put his fingers under his chin, in his typical thinking posture, but Molly didn't want him to retreat into his mind palace just yet, therefore she asked, "So you think this Bert was doing a recce on the family, instead of sweeping the chimney?"  
She was successful, because he let his hands sink to his sides. "No, he did indeed sweep the chimney, but only once. But yes, the rest of the time he was spying out the house." He turned from Molly to Mrs Banks again. "Did your husband ever happen to have met this Bert, Mrs Banks?"  
She looked quite horrified by the idea of that. "God, no! I have to take care of the house. My husband was always at work when Bert was here."  
Sherlock nodded as if to himself and then ordered, "Well then, Mrs Banks, off you go and fetch me the card of the company Bert was working for. We need to inform the police." He made a gesture as if shooing a dog out of the room, and Mrs Banks was so perplexed, she could only follow suit.

* * *

**A/N: Again thanks for all the reviews, alerts etc. They made my week! I'm really impressed how well a lot of people know "Mary Poppins." **


	7. Chapter 7

The ascent was far longer than either Sherlock or Molly had expected. Rung after rung they climbed the ladder. Both had a torch in their mouths, so they could use both hands to hold onto the ladder. It was already dark and the streetlights illuminated their way not enough to go without another source of light.  
They had almost reached the end of it, when Sherlock stopped and sighed dramatically.  
"I've got to say, I don't enjoy this part of the job at all."  
Of course Molly stopped as well behind him and looked up the few rungs between them to him when she said, "My dad used to say 'In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun.'"  
The consulting detective rolled his eyes, "He seems to have been a Shakespeare."  
Molly looked angry. She didn't like it that he was making fun of her deceased father. But before she could bring up the courage to speak her mind, Sherlock climbed the last remaining rungs. The pathologist followed, and he helped her up, as soon as she reached the last rung. He took her hand, and with a swift motion he pulled her up. The instant she came to stand next to him, she could not help but look at their joined hands. She blushed. Sherlock noticed and almost snatched his hand away. Everything went a little too fast for the petite pathologist. Therefore she couldn't do anything else than stand there – a bit like frozen in place.

Sherlock walked away from her purposely. They were on the roof of the Banks' house. The detective went over to the chimney. Molly had recovered from her initial shock and was back in professional mode.  
"So you think Bert was Mary's partner in crime, and he placed the ransom letter on the coffee table by coming through the chimney?"  
"Mhhm," was all she got from the tall man. He was concentrating on inspecting the chimney and the area around it.  
"So much for saying it sounds like out of a children's book...," Molly chuckled.  
He ignored her.

Before climbing up the rooftop, Sherlock had phoned Lestrade and told him about Bert and the company he had been working for. It had been a rather long conversation, which was unusual for Sherlock, who preferred to text. The detective inspector had told him he would call him as soon as he had talked to the company and would send a composite sketch artist over.

Sherlock had asked Mrs Banks a few more questions about Mary and Bert and then had suddenly announced they needed to climb the roof.

Molly went over to Sherlock. He stood a few feet away from the chimney and looked down onto the floor.  
"They've met here; a few times."  
Before Molly could ask how he knew, he pointed the light of his torch to a certain spot on the floor.  
"You see: footprints. One male, one female. And according to the shoes in Mary Poppins' room, I'd say these are hers."  
"But how did they come up here?"  
"Probably the same way we did. Additionally the houses all stand close together in this area. It's not difficult to jump from one roof to the other. Bert presumably came here by jumping from one rooftop to the next."  
To demonstrate his theory, he let the light of the torch jump from the Banks' house to the next and to the next – as far as the ray of the light could reach.  
Molly kept her light downcast most of the time. She did not want to raise it too high in order to dazzle Sherlock.  
"According to your theory, this Bert must be quite in good shape."  
"He certainly is."  
He did not explain why he knew and she did not ask.  
"But mustn't it be quite obvious climbing a ladder onto a rooftop? You're sure she did not use her umbrella to fly up there?"  
Sherlock looked hard at her.  
Now Molly let her light travel from one footprint to another while she spoke, "So Mary and Bert are more or less the Bonny and Clyde from Cherry Tree Lane?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "You could say so." Molly had almost expected him to ask her who Bonny and Clyde were, but she figured since they had been criminals he knew about them.

He turned and walked over to the edge of the roof. Suddenly Molly felt a little sick and hurried after him. She stood beside him and looked up at his face that was directed at the lights of London at night. The irrational desire to grab him suddenly hit her and she could not explain it at first. Sherlock noticed her posture going stiff beside him and looked at her.  
"What is it?"  
And then she knew why she was feeling a little frightened.  
Her voice was nervous and shy when she answered him, "I guess it makes me feel a little anxious, seeing you standing on the edge of a roof." She kept her gaze down, following the light of her torch.  
"Why?" He did not understand.  
Slowly Molly looked up. "Because, you know…" She made a jumping gesture with her hand.  
She was glad, that she did not have to finish her sentence, because it finally dawned on him.  
"Ah, I see."  
And after considering it for a moment he said, "But that's irrational. **I **should be the one feeling uneasy, not you."  
All of a sudden her torch was the most interesting thing in the world.  
"I never said it was rational," she said in a meek voice.  
His gaze went back to the city lights. Somehow he felt uncomfortable, but he could not really understand why. Maybe it was because he did not comprehend how Molly could care so much about him – to feel uneasy **for **him. He did not want to think about it, because the thought of considering another person's feelings filled him with horror. His posture was rigid, and he could feel her shift awkwardly beside him. He was torn between snapping at her and saying something... else. _But what? _

She raised her head and looked over the city as well. It was a clear night, and they could see as far as St. Paul's Cathedral – which was quite a distance. It felt like it had been days ago and not only just today when they had talked to the Bird Woman.

Out here in the suburbs they could not only see the city lights, but the stars as well. The moon was almost full, and it cast the dome of St. Paul's into an angelic light. Molly had to think of the Bird Woman: What was she doing right now when all the birds were asleep?  
Molly smiled. "There's the whole world at your feet. And who gets to see it but the birds, the stars and the chimney sweep?"  
Sherlock had to keep himself from snorting, but somehow he didn't want to belittle her feelings. So he kept staring straight ahead, not saying anything.  
Molly looked up to the stars.  
"Is it true that you didn't know the earth was moving around the sun?"  
Annoyed he rolled his eyes. "God, when will people get over this?"  
Molly was still gazing up to the stars. "How can you not find that beautiful?" she asked in wonder.  
She did not notice that Sherlock's gaze had left the stars and was now directed at her when he answered truthfully, "I do find it beautiful."  
The warmth in his voice made her look at him, but he turned his head so fast that Molly was not sure if he had been looking at the stars, the floor or somewhere else. He now looked straight ahead again, and Molly had the feeling he way avoiding her gaze. She studied his profile, but his face was the usual mask of languid indifference.  
She was so concentrating on finding something, although she did not even know what she was looking for, that she was startled when he spoke again.  
"Did your Dad have some saying about the stars as well?"  
At first Molly thought he was making fun of her again, but he sounded genuinely interested. When she didn't answer right away he turned to look at her, clearly sensing her uncertainty concerning his motives. He let his eyes linger on hers and cocked his head a bit to the side. His stare was not piercing or bored, no, he was looking at her with real, calm interest.  
Molly cleared her throat and looked down on her hands that were nervously playing with her torch.  
"My Dad he... he used to say: When looking at the stars anything can happen if you let it."  
She could almost hear his voice in her ears, as she looked back with nostalgia.  
"He's probably right."  
Sherlock's words surprised her, and she looked up from her hands, to find him still staring at her. His mouth opened, and Molly could only hold her breath, waiting for what he was about to say next.  
But much to her dismay, he seemed to think better of it and closed his lips again. He turned back towards the city, and Molly remembered how to breathe.  
"I think we should get back to the hotel. It's getting late." His voice was uninflected, but the grip on his torch was almost desperate. He hoped that Molly would not notice.  
She did not, because she was too busy trying to make sense of the man in front of her.

_One minute he shows genuine interest and the next... It's like he almost regrets making an effort. _

He turned around and held the torch so high that it blinded her. "Well then, Ms Hooper, let's find an element of fun in climbing down a ladder."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thanks again for all the continued support. I really mean a lot to me!**

**I know I'm taking it slowly, but don't worry (especially Bucky5 *grin*), there will be fluff ;-)**

**And a special thanks to the lovely people who have recommended my stories on Tumblr - I'm not on Tumblr, hence I just found out a few days ago. I felt so flattered by your kind words! Thaaaaaaaank you! **

* * *

Molly had indulged in a long, hot bath. The bathtub was huge, so that she could lay in it without even bending her knees. She had taken a book with her and had stayed so long in the tub, until the water had turned cold. She had not read much, her thoughts constantly drifting back to the case and the odd behaviour of the man in the room next doors.

As she climbed out of the tub, she already longed for her big bed in the hotel room. It was past midnight, and she feared that the case would require to get up early again in the morning. She was tired, but relaxed. She wished – not for the first time – that she had a bathtub in her flat as well. A hot shower was nothing compared to a long bath. Additionally it was nice coming back in the evening and someone had folded your clothing and had made the bed while you were out. At home she often thought she should start to make her bed on a daily basis, but every time she was late for work, she tossed the thought aside.  
_Maybe this could be next year's New Year's resolution? _Since Molly did neither smoke nor see the necessity to lose weight, she thought that could be a reasonable resolution – moribund – just the way a New Year's resolution should be.

After she had dried herself off, she realised that she had left her pyjamas in the bedroom. She wrapped the white, fluffy hotel towel around herself and walked out of the bathroom. The carpet tickled her bare feet, but it felt better than the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. A few drops of water were still on her shoulder, and a few strands of her hair that she kept in a bun were wet, so that she shivered slightly when she stepped out of the steaming bathroom.  
The moment her gaze flickered to the bed, she stopped – frozen in place.

There on her bed sat the consulting detective from the room next doors, looking like he had been staring at the bathroom door for the last hour. He probably had...  
Molly turned crimson – hoping (although knowing better) Sherlock would blame it on the hot water - and clutched the upper end of the towel tightly, in order to keep it from sliding down. She knew it would stay where it was, because she had wrapped it tightly, but she needed something to hold onto desperately.  
"I was taking a bath," she stated a little too out of breath, not knowing what else to say.  
"It's okay, I didn't mind waiting," he said as if it was the most obvious response.  
"I'm only wrapped in a towel."  
"I can see that." Molly noticed that his eyes had looked into hers the whole time. Not once had they strayed somewhere else. The strange sensation of disappointment washed over her. She knew she should feel comforted by his good manners, but somehow it had the opposite effect. Although: real good manners would have been if he had averted his gaze…

Since Sherlock did not seem to find anything weird or embarrassing about this scene, she tried to explain, "My point is, I could have been naked coming from the bathroom into my room, since I thought I'd be alone."  
He only shrugged his shoulders. "I don't find a naked body disturbing."  
"But **I** do."  
"You find your own body disturbing? You should work on your self-esteem," he lectured her.  
Naturally she did not know how to respond to that. Her fingers held on to the towel so tight that her knuckles turned white. To say she felt a little underdressed was a vast understatement – she standing there only wrapped into a towel that barely covered her thighs and he sitting on her bed in his black trousers and white shirt. She wondered if he was also sleeping in his suit.

"Are you walking in on John like that as well?"  
"Not anymore. He's locking the bathroom door nowadays."  
"No wonder, people talk..." she murmured and walked over to the foot of the bed where her pyjamas were folded. From what she had just heard she had to be glad he was only sitting in her bedroom and not coming into the bathroom. Out of the corners of her eyes she could see Sherlock following her every move. It did not help to make her feel less self-conscious. She wanted to snatch the pyjamas off the bed, but froze in mid-action. She turned to him.  
"Sherlock, what are you doing here?"  
His eyes narrowed, clearly sensing her irritation. "I wanted to tell you about the new developments in the case, but if you're not interested…" He sounded like a sulking child and was about to get up to leave the room.  
She hung her head for a second and drew a calming breath.  
"For God's sake, Sherlock, stay," she said resignedly.

He did not rise to stand, but he did not sit down again either. He was obviously waiting for a sign that his presence was really welcomed and that she was indeed interested what he had to tell her about the case. Of course deep down he knew that Molly wanted to know about the new developments, she was nothing if not curious and he knew that she always welcomed him, but then and there he needed a little reassurance.

To pass the time until she would say more, he reached over to her bag that was lying careless on the bed and looked inside.  
"At lot of useless stuff fits into your tiny bag," he commented while sticking his hand inside.  
"Do you have a hat stand in there as well?"  
Molly glared at him, walked over – with one hand still holding onto the towel – and snatched her bag out of his reach with the other. The look he gave her was an odd mixture between a smirk and sulking.  
"I guess that means you want me to leave." He rose to stand, his expression now closed off.

Luckily Molly Hooper was a woman who knew Sherlock Holmes very well and knew how to deal with him and so she said in a gentle voice, "Please stay. I'd really like to know the news, but let me get dressed first, ok?"  
He nodded slowly and made himself comfortable on the bed again.  
Molly picked up her pyjamas and went back to the bathroom. Just before she was about to enter, his voice stopped her, "You don't have to get dressed on my account."  
She turned to him. _Is he just impatient to tell me about how brilliant he is, is he joking or even... flirting? _  
As usual his face gave nothing away, and his voice hadn't either. Therefore she decided it had maybe been a mixture of all of her assumptions and so she settled to say, "No, but I have to on **my **account. I'll be back in a sec. And remember the rules we agreed upon."

With that she turned around and went into the bathroom, leaving a perplexed Sherlock behind, because he himself was not sure what he had meant by his statement.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thanks again for all the lovely feedback! I means the world to me! You are wonderful!  
I know it was cruel to leave it the way I did in the last chapter... So here's what happens next ;-)  
**

* * *

When Molly came back into the room, Sherlock was pacing, his phone in his hand, reading something on the display. He did not bother to look up at her when she passed him and plopped down onto the bed. She drew her feet up and tucked them under her.

After watching him pacing a few times back and forth she asked, "So, what did you want to tell me?"  
He stopped mid-track as if only realizing now that she had re-entered the room. He pocketed his phone and went to stand in front of her.  
"Lestrade called me earlier, they have talked to the chimney sweep company and they've actually sent this Bert to the Banks' house, but of course all his papers are fake, and the police have no record of him. They also sent in forensics to check the sitting room again – especially the fire place, but they did not find anything utilisable."  
Molly looked devastated. "So, basically that's a dead end as well."  
Sherlock got this certain glint in his eyes. "Not necessarily. After calling Lestrade in the Banks' house, he has sent a composite sketch artist over, and Mrs Banks was able to give him a very detailed description. It seems she has paid the chimney sweep more attention than necessary."  
Molly could not help but tease him a little, "So you don't approve of her deduction skills?"  
"Don't be stupid, this had nothing to do with deduction skills, she was just ogling the man. Which is not in the least appropriate, since she's a married woman."  
He was about to say more, but then noticed that Molly was trying hard to suppress a grin. His eyes narrowed. "You were teasing me."  
Finally she gave into her desire and grinned from ear to ear. "Yes, and I would never have thought that you feel so strongly about the principles of marriage."  
He was not amused at all. "You're interpreting way too much into this," he said his voice icy, and he started pacing again.

Molly sighed – she realized she did a lot of that in the company of Sherlock – and tried to restore equilibrium, "Sherlock, what I meant was, we should be glad she was checking Bert out, because now he have an accurate description, don't we?"  
He stopped his pacing for a moment and growled something Molly could not understand.  
"Additionally, with a husband as cold as Mr Banks I can totally understand she felt flattered that someone had paid attention to her and had flirted with her. She told us Bert had been a gentleman."  
"He only used her. He only flirted with her in order to get information from her. How could she be so stupid and fall for that?"

The room fell silent the instant the words had left his mouth and Sherlock felt the temperature drop below zero. His interpersonal skills might have been rubbish, and he was oblivious to most people's feelings, but Molly Hooper was not most people, and now he did not need John to tell him that what he had just said was 'a bit not good.' He felt her eyes on his back and did not dare to turn around, because he did not want to see the hurt he had caused in her eyes. He wanted to flee the room to escape the situation, but his feet would not listen to his command. He was frozen in place. He desperately tried to think of something to say that would set it right again. Oh, how he wished John was here. He would've known how to deal with it!

Finally he tried to brush it off, "At least you always knew that I was only flirting with you in order to get what I wanted." He slowly turned and wanted to smirk to lighten his statement, but decided against it, when he saw her face. She sat there petrified, her eyes enhanced and the hurt barely concealed. He expected her to banish him from the room, to yell at him, to slap him again or even to break into tears (that being the worst case scenario, because he had no idea how to deal with a crying Molly), but then something happened which left him totally dumbfounded: Her posture relaxed a little, and her voice was calm when she said, "I did not think you knew that I was aware of what you were doing."  
He tried to keep his voice as calm as hers, "As opposed to Mrs Banks you are not stupid in the least."

It was a weird feeling for Molly. Somehow she had always thought she was superior to Sherlock concerning his fake-flirting (and she did not care if this was an existing term or not), because albeit she found it flattering, she knew he did not mean it. And she always assumed he did not know that she knew. Otherwise he wouldn't have done it. But she had been wrong. He had known all along, and still done it. In the light of this revelation it now seemed like a game they had played – both enjoying it in a peculiar, masochist kind of way. Somehow they had been on the same page all along, without ever realizing it. Molly did not know what to do with this new piece of information – and neither did Sherlock.

They looked at each other, hoping the other would know how to continue or end this conversation without revealing too much of one's own feelings or hurting the other's.

Finally it was up to Sherlock to just go back to business and speak again in his fast paced way, "Point is, we have a facial composite of this Bert now, which will show in the news and papers, and I've already sent it to the Bird Woman, so now she knows precisely what to look for. It's only a matter of time now and we'll have him."  
Molly decided to follow his lead and pick up the topic of the case – it was safe terrain. "So that's all we do now: waiting for your Bird Woman to call?"  
"She won't call, she will text – they all have strict instructions to only contact me by text – but yes, there's not much else we can do right now."  
Molly's shoulders dropped. "That's frustrating!"  
"We still have enough time. The ransom transfer is scheduled for the day after tomorrow."  
"How do we still know the children are alive?"  
"They won't hurt them until the day of the ransom transfer. Maybe afterwards if they don't get any money, but until then they are safe." He seemed unperturbed.  
Molly shook her head. "Sometimes I don't understand how you can be so... so…"  
"What?" He crossed his arms in front of his chest. He knew she wanted to say something like "cold" or "heartless", but he wanted to hear it coming out of her mouth.  
But she did not fulfil his wish, because she only shrugged when she murmured, "I don't know."

Sherlock turned away and took out his phone again. He read some message when Molly suddenly said, "I've seen the Bird Woman every day when I went to St. Paul's for lunch."  
He pretended to still be reading a text when in reality he could only stare at the phone, because he a sinking feeling where this conversation could be going – too close to the truth.  
He did not need to indicate that he was listening, because she just went on, "I mean she has been there for over two years now."  
This time Sherlock reacted, but still kept his eyes fixed on the display, "Like I said, that's her area."  
"And **you **put her there?"  
He did not see any reason to grace that question with an answer. She knew it all too well.  
He could hear a rustling of clothes and saw her sitting up straight out of the corners of his eyes.  
"What I mean is, I haven't seen her there before. I mean… before the fall."  
Sherlock feigned indifference, "Well maybe, she has been somewhere else before."  
He decided to drop the charade of playing with his phone and put it back into the pocket of his trousers.  
"Sherlock, did you put her there to keep an eye on me?"  
She looked intently at him, but he just kept his gaze downcast. He had promised not to lie to her and he had every intention of holding onto his promise, but he did not want to give her an affirmative answer at the same time.  
_If she already knows it, then why does she need me to tell her? _

Molly was waiting patiently. When Sherlock had first mentioned he had put the Bird Woman in front of St. Paul's Cathedral, she had not really given it a second thought. But during her bath she had had the time to think about their conversation again, and suddenly it had hit her that she could not remember seeing the woman in rags before the day Sherlock had jumped off the roof. It had been like she had turned up out of the blue the next day. It had never crossed her mind before that her being there was Sherlock's doing, but in hindsight it had been rather obvious, and she even felt a little dumb for not drawing this conclusion any sooner.

She was curious what Sherlock would say next – if he was going to say anything at all. She would not be surprised if he would just leave the room without another word. Everything was possible when Sherlock Holmes was involved. And he was about to prove just that to her, because what he said next, was not what she had expected at all.  
"We did not have a nanny."  
Molly was more than surprised about the change of topic. Sherlock must have noticed, because he turned to look at her and clarified, "On the first evening you asked me, if my brother and I had a nanny."  
Molly only nodded. She didn't want to ruin his opening up by saying something stupid. He went on, "Mycroft and I have always been a little… different, but our parents were keen on not letting us notice how different we really were. I mean, as soon as we met other children it was plainly obvious." He chuckled bitterly.  
"It was quite a shock. Until then Mycroft had me believe I was imbecile, because he was telling me he was the smart one. So you can imagine that it did not go well when the other children tried to be friends with us. Maybe it would have been easier for us if our parents would've let us known earlier how different we were." He shrugged his shoulders. "But I guess, they meant well."  
During his speech his eyes danced frantically back and forth – not settling anywhere for more than a few seconds. Molly had no idea where his wish to confide in her had come from, but she felt blessed that he had.  
Therefore she leaned slightly forward on the bed and searched for his eyes when she assured him with a benign smile, "I'm sure they did, Sherlock."  
It was then that his eyes settled on her, and for a second she was sure he looked grateful. His mouth twitched, which Molly judged to be a repression of a smile, before he turned to leave and said, "Goodnight, Molly Hopper."  
She was so perplexed by all what had happened since she had come out of the bathroom that the connecting door was already closed (but not locked) by the time she managed to reply in kind to a now empty room.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Of course thanks again to everyone who is supporting this story and hence me ;-)  
And a special thanks to all the Guests (Charlotte, …) who reviewed, who I can't PM back. I really appreciate you taking the time and your kind words made me very happy! **

* * *

Molly jolted awake the next day, when the connecting door burst open, and her 'neighbour' Sherlock Holmes waltzed in.  
"Get up, Molly, the waiting is over, new developments." He had the excited look he normally wore when a case moved forward according to his prediction.  
Molly mumbled something in her drowsy state and buried her face in the pillow. Sherlock would have none of it and pulled the blanket off her. Molly could not believe that he had actually done that and quickly reached down to the hem of her pyjama top, which had rolled up during sleeping and revealed her bare belly.  
But just like yesterday when she had walked out of the bathroom only dressed in a towel, he ignored her state of clothing (or better lack of it) and went back and forth between the bathroom door and the bed, like a caged lion.  
"The Bird Woman contacted me and sent me a picture of our suspect." He flipped the phone around in his hand and showed Molly the image. But he stopped his pacing only for a second to do it, and Molly was busy getting her hair out of her face so that she could see the face of the person properly. But all she could make out was that it was a man – hence it must've been Bert.  
Molly sat up and stretched, rubbed her eyes stifling a yawn.  
Sherlock resume his wild pacing. "I've already sent the picture to Lestrade, they let it run though the database, but they won't find a match."  
Molly could not even open her mouth to ask why he thought so, because he continued, "They've sent people over to St. Paul's, and as soon as the Bird Woman spots him again, we'll have him!" There was a glint in his eyes that Molly found a little disturbing. She reached forward to grab some of the blanket Sherlock had snatched away in order to cover her bare feet which began to feel cold.  
She cleared her throat before she spoke, "But if we get Burt and Mary Poppins will hear about this, what will happen to Jane and Michael?"  
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and grinned from ear to ear, clearly pleased Molly was keeping up. "That's why we won't take him in custody, but follow him back to Mary Poppins. That way we'll find their hiding place."  
Molly wanted to say something, but he beat her to it, "And now get dressed already, otherwise I'll leave without you."  
He went back into his room. She called after him, "What about breakfast?"  
"Boring!" came his muffled call through the connecting door.

Molly hurried to get ready, because she knew Sherlock leaving her behind was no hollow threat – he would do it, without thinking twice. She had seen him doing it countless times with John, and he had done it with her before as well. Therefore she put on her clothes, brushed her teeth and stuffed some biscuits she had brought along into her bag. She decided to leave her hair open, since she could not find the hair band. She was just about to exit the room, when her phone vibrated. She expected it to be a text from Sherlock telling her he was already gone, but was pleasantly surprised when it was a message from John.

HI MOLLY. HOPE YOU'RE DOING FINE. HAVE YOU SEEN OR TALKED TO SHERLOCK LATELY? HE'S NOT ANSWERING MY TEXTS. – JW

Molly was a little confused, so she typed back:

HI JOHN. HE'S HERE WITH ME, OR I'M HERE WITH HIM... WE'RE ON A CASE. – MH

It took only seconds for John to reply.

WHICH CASE? – JW

Molly typed back just as fast, because now she really was baffled.

MISSING CHILDREN. HE TOLD ME YOU'RE NOT AVAILABLE. – MH

Molly was waiting for John's reply impatiently and drummed with her fingers on the display of her phone. Finally it vibrated again.

HE'S NEVER TOLD ME ANYTHING ABOUT A CASE. – JW

Molly did not know what to reply to that. So Sherlock had lied to her... again. But somehow she could not find it in her to be mad at him. Because that way she had the opportunity to go on a case with him. _But why didn't he just tell me the truth? _Molly knew the answer even while she was asking herself this question: _Because he is Sherlock Holmes. _

There was another message from John:

HE CAN BE QUITE RUDE WHEN ON A CASE. DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY. – JW

Molly was touched by his concern. She could picture his face with a frown, apologizing for the weird ways of his ex-flat mate.

THANKS JOHN. I WON'T. GREETINGS TO MARY. – MH

Then she heard Sherlock's impatient voice coming from his room.  
"Molly?!"  
"I'm here." She opened the door and stuffed the phone into her bag. He looked at it for an instant, then back at her.  
"So it is true what they say," he sounded bored.  
"What is true?" She followed him to the front door of his room.  
"That it takes ages for women to get ready."

* * *

After giving the driver the address, Sherlock remained silent. It did not bother Molly. On the contrary: She was not a morning person and therefore was glad for the mutual silence they shared. It gave her time to think about John's texts and eat some biscuits. She didn't offer Sherlock some, knowing he would decline.  
_Why didn't Sherlock tell him about the case? Why didn't he just tell me that he wanted me to go with him? And why the hell does he want __**me **__to accompany him in the first place? _

It must have shown on her face that Molly was deep in thought, because suddenly the deep baritone from the man beside her rang to her through the haze of her muddled thoughts.  
"What's bothering you?"  
"Nothing," she answered a little too quickly, almost chocking on a biscuit.  
Of course he did not believe her. He gave her his best scolding expression and crossed his arms.  
"It's nothing important," she tried to play it down.  
"Obviously it is, otherwise you wouldn't think about it so hard."  
"I mean... you would find it boring."  
"Try me."  
She had to admit that she had not been expecting that answer. _But when does Sherlock ever do what you expect from him? _  
She did not dare to broach the subject, because she knew he would just get defensive and either insult her or turn silent, and she did not want any of those two options to happen. Therefore the only way she saw to escape it, was to change the subject.  
"Why are we going back to the Banks'? Couldn't we be more help at St. Paul's?"  
He sent her a look that said, "I know what you're doing," but answered none the less, "Mrs Banks called me. There seem to be some disagreements between her husband and the police."  
"And who would have more experience in disagreements with the police than Sherlock Holmes?"  
The detective actually chuckled. Molly stuffed the rest of the biscuits back into her bag.  
"So now we're gonna play intermediate, or what?"  
"We'll try to reason with Mr Banks."  
"Because that's your strongest suit..."  
He looked hard at her. But Molly did not find it intimidating. She could sense that the mood was still light.  
"Mr Banks is a pompous idiot." He scowled.  
Now Molly chuckled. "That's definitely a good starting point to reason with him."  
"I'll have to get down to his level of stupidity." He sounded disgusted.  
Molly rolled her eyes, but still smiled.

They were just around the corner of Cherry Tree Lane now.  
"Any progress with Supercalifragilisticexplialidocious?"  
He looked grim as he sat up in order to be ready to leave the taxi in a minute. "No, and I'm not so sure anymore if this has anything to do with Moriarty at all." He sighed deeply. "Maybe I just want it to mean **something**."  
Molly was not really sure if she knew what he meant by that, but tried to reassure him, "I'm sure you'll find the solution eventually."  
"Eventually better be sooner than later." He did not sound reassured at all.

The taxi came to a halt. Sherlock paid the cabbie and they both got out. Molly went ahead, and when she passed the garden door, she had the strange feeling someone was tucking at her bag. She turned around, only to find Sherlock behind her looking as indifferent as ever. She shook her head and was greeted by Mrs Brill who opened the front door and gestured them to come in. Loud noises were coming from the study. Mr and Mrs Banks were clearly fighting.  
Mrs Brill looked a bit embarrassed. "They're expecting you." She did not even try to take their coats, since they had insisted on keeping them on the last time. The detective and the pathologist followed the housekeeper into the study.

Mr and Mrs Banks were facing each other, both their faces contorted in anger. Mr Banks was out of sorts and his face was red. Molly feared he might get a heart attack. Mrs Banks was just as angry as her husband, but she had a more desperate look on her face. Although her voice had been heard in the hallway as well, she obviously tried to keep calm, as best as possible, while her husband was constantly shouting at her, "I don't care what you think! You don't have the slightest idea how to handle this situation!"  
"How should I? This is first time my children are missing!" Her voice cracked on the last words, and tears began to fall. It was not lost on Molly and Sherlock that she had said 'my' and not 'our' children.  
"Your crying won't help now!" he hollered and threw his hands up in exasperation.  
That was, when Mrs Banks discovered that Molly and Sherlock had entered the room. She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand – which struck Molly as a not-lady-like-gesture that she had never expected from the woman who used to wear expensive designer outfits. But somehow it made her so much more ordinary and suddenly Molly felt endlessly sorry for the poor woman. All her money and her status could not have prevented the hell she was going through now. And above all she was 'blessed' with a husband who did not give a damn about her or her feelings.  
Mrs Banks rushed over to the detective and Molly, took them by the arms and dragged them to her husband.  
"See, George, Dr Hooper and Mr Holmes are here!" One could not overhear the glee bordering on hysteria in her voice. Mr Banks looked even more chagrined as he eyed Sherlock. He did not even care to look at Molly. And she was glad for it.  
"And what are they doing here? Shouldn't they be looking for this Bert guy?" he asked in a pompous tone.  
"My contact and the police are working on it while we speak. The more people are involved in the stakeout, the more obvious it will be," Sherlock responded indifferently.  
"George thinks the police should arrest Bert right on the spot and not follow him, he..." But Mrs Banks could not finish her explanation of the situation, because her husband interrupted her, "What did I tell you? I can speak for myself, Winifred!" His voice was so loud that Molly and Mrs Banks cringed visibly. Molly could not understand how a man could be so imbued with hatred. _Or maybe it is desperation? And this is the only way he knows how to cope?  
_  
Sherlock was totally unmoved by the outburst of the man beside him. His voice was calm, but did not lack a snarky undertone that showed how unbearable he thought the man was, "If the police would take Bert into custody, Mary Poppins will probably hurt Jane and Michael. And you don't want that, do you?" He did not answer, but gave Sherlock his best melt-down-and-die stare. The detective was of course ignorant of it and went on, "I thought so. Therefore the best chance to find your children is to follow Bert to the place where he and Mary Poppins are hiding Michael and Jane."  
Molly noticed that this had been the first time that Sherlock had called the children by their names – two times in a row. She knew he was doing it on purpose and was once again reminded that nothing Sherlock Holmes ever said was accidental.  
Mr Banks eyed Sherlock. "Why should we listen to you, Mr Holmes? Weren't there some inconsistencies in your last case of missing children?"  
Sherlock's jaw clenched, and Molly held her breath. She knew this was a tender spot, and she prayed that he would not lose his temper now. But she was lucky, because Sherlock knew that Mr Banks was only trying to provoke him in order to give him a reason to throw him out. That made the man even more pathetic in his eyes.  
"I brought the children back, didn't I?" he said evenly.  
Molly dared to breathe again, and she saw Mrs Banks do the same next to her. Since Mr Banks could not argue with that, he focused on his wife again, "And we all know this is your fault! You're hiring a nanny without references who turns out to be a kidnapper! If you would care about your children as much as you care about your stupid political career, this wouldn't have happened!"  
Mrs Banks took a step towards her man and shouted, "If there weren't any photos on the wall, you would not even know what your children looked like! If you'd only spent a third of the time you spent in the bank with your family, you would know what was going on in your house! So don't you dare accuse me of neglecting my responsibilities!"  
Everyone, including Sherlock, was taken aback by her outburst. She had stated it with a vehemence that no one would have given her credit for – she looked like such a fragile woman. Molly could not help but compare her to a bird with a broken wing. But now she had proven that she could soar even when injured.  
Mr Banks opened his mouth, but no words came out. After a few seconds he closed it again, sent his wife a vile look and threatened leaving the study, "You better find the children, Mr Holmes!"

There was a long silence after Mr Banks had left the sitting room. Mrs Banks was looking down on the floor, Molly was concentrating on the patterns of her bag, and Sherlock was staring blankly ahead. He tried to get his anger under control. He had tried his best not to let Mr Banks see it, but the man really riled him up. _How can a man be so stupid? Ghastly! _  
He felt an inner turmoil and wanted to punch or shoot something desperately – preferably Mr Banks' face, but since that was out of the question, the wall would do just fine. Just as he was about to contemplate how 'not good' it would be to ruin Mrs Banks' wall, her shy voice interrupted his thoughts, "It's not always easy being in a relationship. Especially if you have kids. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about." She desperately tried to apologize for the scene they had just witnessed.

Molly again felt sorry for her and wanted to squeeze her hand in reassurance, when she noticed Sherlock staring at Mrs Banks with a reptilian coldness, and he snarled, "Why should we? Do we look like a couple? Because we are not – not even close. How you come to the conclusion that we have kids, is a complete mystery to me. What a misconception! Ms Hooper is only here, because some people think, because of my history with the missing children's case with Moriarty, I can't handle it on my own. That's her sole purpose: She's something like my personal nanny. And just like your children, I would prefer to get rid of my nanny, who's following me wherever I go. She is neither use nor ornament."

It was hard to tell which of the two women in the room looked more shocked at Sherlock's outburst. Molly was thrown back by the malice of his words – literally, because she stumbled backwards a few steps. Her eyes went as big as saucers and her face white as the wall, because she could not believe what he had just said. The thoughts were swirling in her head, and she felt dizzy. Sherlock was not even looking at her, but kept his gaze on Mrs Banks. Molly felt paralyzed, and before she knew it, her vision became blurry. Apathetically she lifted her hand in order to touch her cheek, only to find it wet with tears. She let her hand drop and slowly started to walk out of the room. If someone had tried to call after her, she would not have heard it, because she was like in trance. But no one tried to stop her.

The two remaining people in the study were still looking at each other. Both not realizing what had just happened – but for different reasons. Mrs Banks voice was as cold and detached as Sherlock had ever heard her when she finally spoke, "That's exactly why you need a nanny Mister Holmes, because that was downright cruel. I really don't understand how a delicate woman like her can put up with someone like you. You should be ashamed of yourself! And now I would appreciate it, if you'll leave my house. I'm sure you are capable of finding the door on your own. Good day." With that she turned on her heels and exited the room, her head held high.

It took Sherlock a few moments to understand what had just happened. And with horror he realized that he should indeed go, because he had to keep Molly from doing something stupid like overreacting and leaving.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: SO many nice reviews on the last one – I was blown away, you are the best! Thank you!  
To Ash (Guest): Cheers! I really appreciate your lovely words. I totally agree: Molly slap him! Or throw something at him! Maybe I should write that… ;-) **

* * *

Molly did not know how she had ended up in her hotel room. She figured she must have taken a cab from the Banks' house to the hotel – doing it all on autopilot, since she could not remember any of it. The last thing she remembered were the horrible things Sherlock had said to her, again. Why did she always think this would be the last time that he would say such hurtful things? Why did she give him chance after chance? She knew the answer, but she did not like it. She was done with fooling herself! She was done with Sherlock Holmes! She always ended up feeling miserable. It did not make a difference to him if she was there or not. If she cared or not. She did not matter. She was just convenient. Easy to persuade to help him, to smuggle body parts and easy to manipulate. Because that was all what feelings of other people were for Sherlock Holmes: a weak spot he could use to his advantage.

But she would not be his punching ball anymore. She would go. Leave. Forever.

She was crying while she stuffed her clothes into her small suitcase, so that she repeatedly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffled.

She felt so stupid for ever thinking things would change – that his feelings for her would change. That one day he would come to the realization that she really was the one person that mattered the most, that he could trust her, because she would never betray and always be there for him, like she had been all along – his constant.

But he would never see that. He would always look through her, giving her an occasional gentle word or touch, if the situation required it so that she would let him use her time and time again. He would always take her for granted, only thinking about himself in his narcissistic attitude. There was no Sherlock and Molly and there never would be. She had to come to terms with this.

She drew a deep breath. She knew Sherlock had a heart – a big one even, but he was just not ready to let anyone in. And she could not wait forever for him to be ready to open himself up – if it would happen at all. She did not ask for much. She did not even want him to change – she loved him the odd way he was – only to show her occasionally his real self and put the same trust in her that she put in him. But obviously even that was too much to ask for.

She felt herself cool down a bit. She had stopped crying and went into the bathroom to retrieve her toiletries. She blew her nose and splashed some water into her face. She did not want the clerk at the front desk see right away that she had been crying her eyes out.

When she came back into the bedroom, Sherlock was standing there, the connecting door ajar. She mentally kicked herself for not locking it, but to be honest she had not expected him to follow her back to the hotel. He had a case to finish, and in his world there was nothing more important than a case.

"What are you doing?" His voice clearly showed the irritation that his blank face did not.  
"Well, what does it look like?" She surprised herself how harsh she sounded.  
"Like you're packing."  
"Brilliant deduction."  
His piercing gaze was directed at her; his eyes were flickering over her face, clearly trying to make sense of the scene in front of him.

She tried to pass him with her suitcase in hand, but he stopped her by catching her wrist.  
She stared down where his hand was gripping her wrist. It was fierce and desperate.  
"You can't just leave," he said with absolute conviction.  
"Sure I can. And I will. Let me go." She tried to free her hand from his, but he didn't loosen his grip.  
"I'm sorry." His grip became even harder.  
"You're hurting me." She didn't know if she meant physically or emotionally, but she decided it didn't matter, because both was applicable.  
The moment the words had left her mouth, he snatched his hand away from her wrist as if he had been burnt.  
"I'm sorry," he mumbled again and took a step back.

His chest was rising and falling visibly, and she could only speculate that his heart beat fast – he had obviously been in a rush to come here. He raked a hand though his hair, and Molly recognized it as a gesture of frustration.

He had no idea what to say or what to do – and he hated it. He usually had a smug answer to everything, and he was never at a loss – only when it came to Molly Hooper. When she was concerned he always said the wrong thing. Always.

He had to say something that would make her see. He did not know what exactly, but he knew that he could not stand it if she would leave him like that – angry and hurt. He told himself that he just did not like the fact that she would leave more or less in the middle of a case. She had to stay until the end – finish it. She had told him she would help him, and he would make her see that he expected her to keep her word. A voice in his head told him that something was not right about his reasoning, but he tried to ignore it.

He prepared to make a "friendly" face and keep his voice low and deep (just the way she liked it) and was just about to make a step towards her and begin his little persuasion, when **she **started to speak, "You know, I'll see you through. I know what you're doing. You rub people off the wrong way to keep your distance. It's kind of a defence mechanism. This way nobody will get close to you. You try to keep people at arm's length. Above all you're afraid that somebody might reach you and discover that you're just as human and fragile as the rest of us. You think that nobody would admire you for your humanity, because you see it as a weakness. But it's not a weakness and it's not a human error. It's what makes the difference between you and Moriarty. Deep inside you care whereas he was just hollow. And now tell me: Who has won? The person who cared or the person who only knew resentment?"  
He did not answer, and she had not expected him to. Therefore she went on, "People think I'm pathetic for still keeping up with you, for still caring about you. Maybe I am. And maybe they're right and I should make a clear cut and never see you again. Because even though I know that's just the way you are and that you have a good heart, it still hurts like hell. And I don't know for how long I can take it anymore. Maybe it's time to develop some kind of defence mechanism of my own and try to resent you for the way you treated me today. Maybe hating you is easier than loving you. " His eyes widened.  
"Molly…"  
She held up a hand to stop him. "No, Sherlock, I don't want to hear it."  
He closed his mouth and looked at her up held hand. Both realized at the same time that it was shaking. Molly hastened to put it behind her back. She was proud of herself for not falling apart in front of him, and she did not want to ruin it.  
She was about to bend down to reach for her suitcase again, when she heard him say, "I need your help."  
She stood back up.  
"You need a therapist's help!"  
He decided to leave that uncommented. He knew she was hurting and said things in anger she did not mean. At least he hoped she did not mean them.  
"The case will be solved by the evening. It's only a few more hours. And you know that I'm not supposed to work on a missing children's case alone," he tried to reason with her.  
"Since I'm only an annoying nanny, I'm sure you can find someone else for the job. Get John."  
"You know I did not tell him about this case." It was not a question.  
"How do you...?"  
"I've read your text feed."  
"You... you... Does the word 'privacy' mean anything at all to you?!" She threw her hands up in exasperation.  
"When I asked you what it was that was bothering you in the taxi, you said it was nothing. You were clearly hiding something from me. I had to find out what it was."  
In his world his actions were totally justified; but not in Molly's.  
"That gives you no right to sneak around in my phone!"  
"I do that with John all the time."  
"And how does he feel about it?"  
"He thinks choosing longer passwords will make it more complicated for me."  
"So does he approve of it?" It did not pass her attention that he had not answered her question.  
He remained silent and stared hard at her. That was answer enough for her.  
"I thought so." She reached down to pick up her suitcase again. He grabbed her wrist again and the desperate hold he had on her stood in stark contrast to the softness in his voice.  
"Stay. Please."  
She stared down on the floor, not daring to meet his eyes, afraid of what she might find there.  
"I don't see a reason why." She had never sounded so bitter.  
Sherlock was quite at a loss with his reasoning so he tried another approach, "The children should know who helped finding them. They should be able to meet you in person once they've come back." Sherlock felt her posture change, and he dared to loosen the grip on her hand. Something was telling him she would not run away.

She drew a deep breath, before she raised her head high, trying to stand tall. He could not blame her. How often had he made her look small – sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.  
Her expression was hard when she looked at him.  
"Fine." The warmth in her brown eyes with which she normally looked at him was gone, and he hated it; because he had made it disappear, it was his own fault.  
"I'll see you then." She looked pointedly at the connecting door.  
He understood, nodded and went to retreat in his room. He paused the moment he entered his room and turned around. There was something he wanted to say to her, to make her understand. But just as he was about to open his mouth, the connecting door was slammed into his face, and for the first time since they had shared adjoining rooms, he heard the connecting door being locked. No sound had ever made him feel so lonesome.

On her side of the door, Molly finally gave into her desire to cry once more and let her tears fall freely. She hated herself for ever thinking something good might come from this weird trip. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. He had hurt her so many times, and she had wasted so many tears on him. She had to move on. She did not know how, but she knew she needed to. Otherwise she would break, sooner or later. She had to face the facts: It was an illusion that Sherlock would ever reciprocate her feelings. He would always take her for granted. Still, she was determined to stay until this case was over, so she would have the feeling that she had made a difference for once: She had helped to find the missing children.

Although she did not want to admit it, but there had even been moments during this case when she actually had fun with him and when he was being kind and showing her something of the man that was Sherlock Holmes.

She felt exhausted. She closed her eyes and leaned against the door.

_Illusions may shatter, but memories stay. _

She bit her lower lip to muffle a cry that threatened to escape her lips as the tears began to fall again. Little did she know that on the other side of the locked connecting door a certain consulting detective was leaning heavily against the door as well.

* * *

**A/N: Please don't kill me! But you know: moment of final suspense before the fluff. Have faith: There will be fluff. ;-)  
I'm planning on 3 more chapters and an epilogue – just though you know. **


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:  
A BIG thanks to all of you again, I was blown away by the response to this chapter! I hope I did not forget to PM someone back...**

**To leidibrf: Yes, poor Molly. And Sherock must say something really nice to make it up!**

**To Arcoiris: Yeah angsty, but I think after angst the fluff is even... fluffier ;-)**

**It's inner monologue-time, baby! ;-) **

* * *

**Sherlock's POV **

This time he had gone too far. He had often wondered what it might take to drive Molly Hooper away. Early on in their acquaintance it had been a playful thought – almost like sports, but since after the fall the thought had always been a little ... disturbing. But now he knew. He had always known it would happen eventually – sooner or later. But somehow he had hoped it would be later. After years of trying to thrust her away, he was bewildered by his sudden success. He tried to tell himself that it was better this way: a clear cut. He had finally managed to get rid of her, before he started to care even more for her. He tried to convince himself that it was a good thing. But the lie was too obvious to believe it.

He pushed himself away from the connecting door with a heavy sigh and went over to sit on the bed. He closed his eyes and began to massage his temples.

He had not wanted to hurt her with his words. He had not even known he had spoken them until they had left his mouth. And then there had been no taking them back. How could he explain it to her that he had not meant what he had said? That he had just projected his frustration about Mr Banks on her. That instead of hitting or shooting the wall, he had needed another catalyst for his anger – and it ended up being her. And it was unforgivable – he understood that.

Why was it that he had reacted so strongly to Mrs Banks' words about them being a couple or having children? Why had this statement been the straw to break the camel's back? And why was he even thinking about it? He rubbed people off the wrong way all the time, and he never gave it a second thought. Why know? What had changed?

He opened his eyes, got up and went over to the window. He felt a bit like he was suffocating, so he opened the window and took off his coat and suit jacket. Subconsciously he laid his right hand on his chest while he tried to take a deep breath of the cool breeze that came through the window. It smelled of cherry trees and the smell made him feel sick in the stomach. He felt his heart beat erratically under his palm, and he told it to beat slower, but somehow it would not listen to his command. God, he would have killed for a cigarette right now!

A lot of people hated him and he had never cared – but not Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper was supposed to like him, help him, believe in him and **not **hate him. The thought that she actually considered not seeing him anymore distressed him more than he dared to admit. Molly had always been the one constant in his life – always there – sometimes almost invisible, but still there. Subconsciously he had always relied on her and on the fact that she would always be around. She was **his **pathologist. Of course she would always be there for him!

All the horrible things he had said and done to her and still she had never left his side and now she considered leaving him for good. A shudder went through him. He tried to blame it on the cold air coming through the window, but knew it was a lie. His heartbeat had slowed down a bit, but breathing was still an effort. He leaned a bit outside the window and took in the scenery. They were on the top floor of the hotel; hence the perspective reminded him of the one on the roof of the Banks' house. He could even make out the dome of St. Paul's in the distance as well. Normally looking over London gave him some kind of peace, but now it did not help one bit. On the contrary: It brought back the memories of him and Molly on the roof the night before. He winced when thinking about the way she had felt anxious about him being on a roof again. Of course he had known since the beginning that she'd had an infatuation for him, but only once before had the thought crossed his mind that maybe it was not only a crush, but much more. And that had been before the fall, when he had asked her for help and she had stood there bravely offering him everything he wanted. He hadn't been sure anymore who and what he was, but she had had the trust in him for both of them. Her faith in him had stunned him, and if he was honest, he would go as far as to admit that he had been impressed. But there had been other things to think about – a way to outlive Moriarty. So he had never dared to consider how deep her feelings for him really ran. Or his for her, on that matter...  
But did he have feelings? Sure he did, but what kind of?  
The way he felt now did resemble the time when he had come back and had seen that damn ring on her finger – signalling that she was no longer his. That had irked him. He hadn't known to be possessive before, but then and there he resented the thought of her belonging to another man. But he had stumped the feeling down again, after meeting Tom and realising that she was not over him and sooner or later would come back to him. And she did. And now he had blown his chance again.  
That's why he resented sentiment, because it made him feel like this: confused, irritated, sick in the stomach, ... hurting.

He leaned on the window sill and asked himself why he had not brought his violin with him. He desperately wanted to torture its strings now. No cigarettes and no violin – how was he to survive this case?

Somehow he wished she would have punched him; that would not have hurt as much as her saying she would try to hate him from now on. Sure, he thought that someone like Molly Hooper could never really **hate **someone, but he had seen the conviction in her eyes and had known that she had meant every word she had said. There would be no spare body parts for him anymore, no beating corpses, to access to the lab anytime he wanted, no lab equipment, no experiments, no... Molly Hooper.

He figured he had reacted so strongly to Mrs Banks' assumption they were a couple, because he was afraid people would see that he cared about her. It put her in a dangerous place and it made him vulnerable. He did not want people to think he had a weak spot. But then again, when people realised she was important to him without him even acting on it, what would be the difference if he in fact would act on it?

He shook his head. It was out of the question now, was it? There was no point in even considering it, was there? Because he had ruined their friendship (?!) with his words and his behaviour. He could not take back his words. But he could fix it. He was sure about that. If he really wanted to he could make it right again. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all! He had to find a way to make her see, to make her understand what not even he could fully understand himself. But she had always been better in understanding his ... sentimental... side. She had always known what he had meant even without words. He had to rely on her ability to read him.

Breathing became gradually easier, and suddenly the cherry trees almost smelled... nice. Not as nice as cigarette smoke, of course, but tolerable.

He hated relying on other people – except John maybe – but he knew he could rely on her. He had trusted her with his life and now it was time to trust her with his heart as well. But could he really do that? The thought alone was disturbing to say the least. The avalanche of his own feelings was sweeping him away, and it made him feel sick. How could she cope with it, when he himself was not able to do that? But then again, Molly Hooper was experienced with sentiment, with feelings. He had to put some of the faith she had in him in her. Maybe she knew what to do. She was a doctor after all... Maybe she could cure him?


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Once again: Thank you all you lovely people! You are amazing!  
So let's find out who this Mary Poppins is...  
**

* * *

Hours later Molly Hooper laid on her bed in her hotel room with one hand draped over her eyes when her phone on the bedside table vibrated, indicating a new message. The television was turned on, but she had not bothered to pay attention to it about an hour ago. There had been nothing on that could've taken her mind off the things that had happened in the morning. Therefore she had decided to just keep it on to have some kind of background noise.

Around noon she had gone to the Chinese restaurant around the corner in order to get something to eat. She had ordered some noodles for take away planning on eating it in the park. The fresh air and the walk to the park had helped her to clear her mind a bit and she had sat down on a bench across the small lake and had looked at the ducks swimming there. But when she had opened the box containing the food, the smell had made her feel sick and she had ended up throwing the noodles away untouched. She had not felt like eating. She had not felt like doing anything at all at that point. Maybe like crawling into a hole and dying from her misery, but since there was no hole in the park…

After a long time sitting on the park bench, staring blankly ahead and being lost in thoughts, she had suddenly realised that it was getting dark. Not wanting to be out alone in a park at night, she had gone back to the hotel, had turned on the TV and had waited for the case to be over, so that she finally could go back to her flat to have a good long cry with a lot of ice cream and figure out the best way to never cross paths with Sherlock Holmes again and still keep her dignity. She had no illusions that he would make it easy for her.

She rolled over to grab her phone. Not surprisingly the text was from the man next doors:

THEY GOT THEM. LOBBY IN 5. SH

She did not bother to text back. She knew he did not expect her to. She rolled off the bed, put on her coat, took her bag and left the room, dreading to meet the consulting detective in the lobby.

The black-clad figure that was Sherlock Holmes was standing with his back to her when she exited the lift in the lobby. She steeled herself for a hostile glance or a techy statement about her taking so long, but he only acknowledged her with a simple nod when she reached him. He went outside to a waiting cab, and she followed him.

The first minute of the taxi ride was spent in total silence, and the air was so thick one could cut it with a knife. Molly felt the urge to say something, but made herself stay silent. She was determined to follow through with her plan of distancing herself from the consulting detective.

When the silence was almost too hard to bear, Sherlock finally broke it, "They've found the children together with Mary Poppins in an abandoned warehouse near Canary Wharf."  
Molly could not help a relieved sigh that escaped her. "Are they ok?"  
"Yes." He did not show any emotion. Molly did now know if he was glad about it, but she figured he plain did not care.  
They would soon reach the Banks' residence, so she wanted to ask some other things before they would be surrounded by police.  
"Did they find them by tracking Bert?"  
"Yes. He led them straight to his partner in crime. Seems like he's not so intelligent after all." It was plain as day, the subtext being, "Not as intelligent as **I **am."  
The next question was one Molly dreaded to ask, but she just had to, "And what about... Moriarty and the Supercali… You know…"  
There was the smallest of smiles tucking at the corners of his lips, "You'll see."

The taxi stopped, Sherlock paid the cabbie and rounded the car to join Molly on the pavement. The neighbour with the white beard and the sailor hat sat at his illuminated window again and looked down on the pair on the pavement. He shouted and pointed a finger at them, "The wind is about to change again! The wind is about to change!"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went towards the door while Molly muttered, "Everything's higgledy-piggledy here."

As expected Lestrade and some police officers Molly did not know and Sherlock did not like (or better did not bother to acknowledge their presence) were gathered in the sitting room. Mrs Banks ran over to them as soon as they entered the room. She threw her arms around Molly and hugged her tightly.  
"Oh Dr Hooper, I can't thank you enough! Thank you! Thank you!"  
She repeated her words numerous times, and out of the corners of her eyes Molly could see Sherlock watching the scene with disdain. He was probably afraid Mrs Banks would want to hug him as well. But as soon as she released Molly from her fierce embrace and her eyes wandered over to him, he knew he was safe. She held herself high when she made a step towards him and extended her hand. "Thank you very much, Mr Holmes," she said formally and shook his hand. He knew she had not forgotten how he had treaded Molly today, and probably never would. Mrs Banks felt strong loyalty towards other women who were treated badly by men. Therefore he may have earned her gratitude for bringing her children back, but had lost her respect forever. But that was fine with him. It was not her whose respect he wanted, it was the respect of the woman next to him he feared to have lost.

Mrs Banks turned around to the party of people behind her and it did not escape Molly's notice that she was wearing her "Votes for women"-button. Her husband walked over with one child at each hand. He seemed to hold onto them very tightly. His posture was as stiff as ever, but his features had softened noticeable. He looked down at the children with an affection Molly would have never given him credit for when he said, "Jane, Michael, I want you to meet Dr Hooper and Mr Holmes. Thanks to them you're back safe and sound."

Mr Banks pushed the kids gently forwards to thank the pathologist and the detective. They looked shy – even a little frightened. Molly could not blame them. They had gone through a traumatic experience. In order to lessen their fear, Molly crouched down onto their level and extended her hand.  
"Hello Jane, hello Michael. Nice to meet you." She smiled a warm smile, and Sherlock could only watch in wonderment as the faces of the two children beamed up and one after the other shook her hand. The next second one of the hands (Jane's to be precise) was held into his field of vision. He stared at it for a moment as if not knowing what to do with it. He felt Molly nudge his leg with her elbow and that brought him out of his stupor.  
"Hello," he said and shook Jane's hand stiffly. He repeated the action with Michael. The children eyed him curiously and then looked back at Molly who had stood up again. She smiled again at them and nodded as if they would share a private joke. Sherlock could not help but feel a bit excluded.  
Behind the children Mrs Banks cleared his throat, "Isn't there something you forgot, children?"  
The two looked at Molly and Sherlock. "Thank you Mr and Mrs Holmes."  
Molly's eyes widened when she felt Sherlock's posture going rigid beside her. She inwardly prepared herself for another outburst, but was more than surprised when she heard his calm baritone say, "No problem."  
She drew a breath she didn't know she had been holding.  
"Come on you two, it's late. Let's get you to bed." Mrs Banks took her children, nodded at Molly once more in thanks and exited with her children in tow.

So far Mr Banks had not expressed his gratitude, and Sherlock knew he would not. He was way too proud to admit that he had been wrong. And that was one of the few things Sherlock could understand. Sherlock did not need his gratitude or even his money. He had needed a case and Mr Banks had provided him with one. They were even.

Finally Lestrade walked over to them.  
"Molly, Sherlock good to see you teamed up again."  
Molly felt the temperature drop to zero the moment Lestrade had finished his sentence, and she looked down onto the floor. Obviously Lestrade could feel it too, because he looked curiously from the pathologist to the consulting detective. Sherlock did not like that at all, so he asked in an irritated voice, "So what's her real name?"  
Lestrade refrained from trying to find out what was going on between his friends and looked Sherlock in the eye.  
"They don't know. She's been there for almost 5 years now and they still don't have a clue what her real name is or where she comes from."  
Sherlock sounded frustrated, "This is impossible. There must be some clues."  
Lestrade shrugged. "There may be, and if you're interested be my guest and have a look at them."  
Sherlock looked disgusted. "No. I don't have time for that nonsense."

Molly had been looking from one man to the other during their conversation, having no idea what they were talking about. She crossed her arms.  
"Would anyone be so kind as to enlighten me?"  
Lestrade turned towards her. "Yeah sorry, I thought Sherlock had already told you."  
"There was no time," the man in question defended himself.  
"Whatever," Lestrade began, "Sherlock had the idea that this whole Supercali…"  
"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," Sherlock completed.  
"Exactly that," Lestrade went on, "may have come from someone who is mentally ill. Therefore we've sent Mary Poppins' facial composite to all the sanatoriums in London and we actually had a match in Bethlem Royal Hospital. She goes under the name Mary Poppins there as well, since nobody knows her real name. One day she showed up on the doorstep of the clinic with her umbrella and carpet bag in hand and told them her name was Mary Poppins, she was a practically perfect nanny and she would stay until the wind would change." He shrugged, "They figure she suffers from some personality disorder, for all questions the doctors have asked her, she's answered with the Super… you know… word. We went to look at her room. The walls are full of it. It's quite creepy." Lestrade shivered. "She even shouted it the whole time when we arrested her."  
Molly thought about it for a moment. "So this was all the doing of a mentally ill woman?"  
"Yes."  
"But what about Bert?"  
Now it was Sherlock's turn to explain, "He was one of the nurses. Somehow he sympathised with Mary Poppins, and they came up with the plan to kidnap some children in order to get money. That's how she could escape from the clinic – he helped her."  
"We live in a sick world." The grim voice of Mr Banks made them turn around towards him. Molly had been so absorbed in Lestrade's and Sherlock's explanation that she had almost forgotten that there were other people in the room as well.  
Lestrade sighed deeply and walked over to the other police men who were standing in the corner of the room.  
Sherlock made a step towards Mr Banks and extended his hand. Molly was surprised by his gesture. And so was Mr Banks, because he eyed it suspiciously before taking it and shaking it while Sherlock announced, "I'd say our work is done."  
Mr Banks nodded, and they released hands. He came towards Molly and shook her hand as well. "Thank you very much, Dr Hooper. Take care." She smiled friendly and nodded as well. She still did not like him, but she had the hope that he might have learned something from this horrible experience and would be a better husband and father from now on. Maybe she was being silly believing in the good in people, but that was just the way she was.

She turned to follow Sherlock who was waiting for her at the door, when she heard him say, "Just though you know Mr Banks, we'll need to visit your roof once more."

Before Molly could even say a word he had exited the room, clearly expecting her to follow him.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thanks again all you amazing people!  
And now for all of you who have been so patient, FINALLY some fluff ;-)  
Enjoy! **

* * *

Molly was asking herself why she had followed him onto the roof top again. She tried to convince herself that it had nothing to do with the puppy dog eyes-look he had given her, when asking her to climb the ladder with him. She hated herself for giving into him once again.

But she was glad she had stayed until the case had been finished. It had been worth it. The moment she had seen the two children back at their home, her heart had swelled. To know that she had been part – and if only a small one – of the team finding them, made her feel proud. She had felt how happy even Mr Banks was that his children were back safe and sound. She was glad everything had turned out the way it did. Well, not **everything**. Of course she wished things with Sherlock would have turned out differently.

Said man was standing on the edge of the roof again, looking over London at night, his torch turned off. Molly had no idea what this was all about, and as usual Sherlock did not fill her in onto his thoughts. She walked over to stand next to him, a few steps away. She could not stand being too close to him. It made her want to forgive him, to forget her decision to not see him again after going back home. Therefore she kept her distance, the light of her torch drawing nervous circles around her feet.

After a long moment of silence she asked, "So, it had nothing to do with Moriarty?"  
"No." Molly rolled her eyes at his mono syllabic response.  
"But what does it mean: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?" She was glad that she had said it without stuttering.  
"It can mean exactly what you want it to," came the enigmatic response.  
Molly sighed deeply.  
"Sherlock, what are we doing here?" She gestured to the roof and the city around her and the light of her torch touched his figure in the process.  
"There's things half in shadow and halfway in light."  
Molly directed the ray of her torch towards his face in order to dazzle him, and her voice transported all the frustration she was feeling, "Are you a fortune cookie, or what?!"  
He glanced at her for a second, probably surprised by her open display of anger, but then turned back towards the city at night.  
Molly let her hand sink and switched off the torch as well. She did not know why, she just felt like it.

Just as she was about to think about leaving the roof, since she saw so point in staying any longer, he started to speak in an absent voice, "You know, what my mum always used to say when Mycroft or I were sick?" She shook her head, although he did not look at her.  
"A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down," he chuckled, clearly remembering it.  
"I can't follow you," Molly said, again looking at his profile.  
He came back from his memory, as she could tell by the change in his tone. "What I'm trying to say is: all parents tend to have their weird little sayings, not only..." But he stopped mid-sentence, because he realised that he was about to say something she could misinterpret.  
But she finished his sentence for him, "You mean... not only my dad."  
"Yes, but I don't mean it as a..."  
She almost smiled when she interrupted him, "I know how you mean it."  
And she did. She knew it was his way of apologizing for making fun of some of the things she had told him about her father.  
He nodded, but he still did not look at her.

Silence.

"I'm sorry."  
Molly hung her head.  
"I've already told you, I don't want to hear it."  
Now he turned towards her, and she could see that he was angry and tried not to show it as he made a step towards her, "But you **have **to let me explain!"  
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "I don't **have **to do anything you say, Sherlock Holmes!"  
"That's not what I meant!" he hollered. As soon as he realised how shocked Molly was by the volume of his voice he cleared his throat and took a breath in order to cool his nerves.  
"I know I can't take it back, but..."  
"Why did you want me to accompany you to the case in the first place?" she interrupted him. He was clearly taken aback by her question. She looked at him with a stern expression.  
When he was about to answer, she added, "And don't bullshit me with 'I need supervision during a missing children's case', because we both know that's only half the story."  
He was surprised by her choice of words, but it only proved his assumption that he had to choose his words with care.  
"You seemed to have enjoyed our last case, and I thought it would be fun."  
"Fun?! Sherlock, two children had gone missing!"  
He hung his head and muttered, "Timing…"  
"Sorry, what?"  
He looked back up. "You know what I mean… My idea of fun is… different. And there were moments when we've had fun, weren't there?"  
She looked down at her shoes.  
"Yes," she admitted in a meek voice.

"You don't want any excuses? Fine. I can understand. It just don't want you to hate me." There was such desperation in his voice that Molly had to look at him to make sure that this had really been Sherlock Holmes sounding so lost, almost pleading. The look he gave her did not prove her wrong. There he was standing next to her, letting his guard down and letting her see a bit of his real self. She could not help herself, but reach forward and touch his cheek. For a second there was a look of horror in his eyes, and she thought he would retreat, but as soon as it had come it left again, and he let it happen. He even closed his eyes for a short moment when her hand touched his cheek.  
She slowly shook her head and felt tears threatening to escape when she whispered, "Sometimes what you do is so wrong, and then it is so right."  
She reluctantly released his face and Sherlock's gaze followed her hand.  
"You say all those horrible things to me and you take me for granted, and..." She had to take a breath to keep herself from crying, before she went on, "It's not logical, but I could never hate you."  
His eyes snapped back to hers, and she could see that his thoughts were running a hundred miles per hour.  
Now it was his turn to shake his head. "Nothing of this is logical."  
"What do you mean?" She had to take a step back from him, but he followed and was just as close as before when he explained, "It's not logical that I find you much more attractive than other women I've encountered, although from a objective point of view you're only averagely attractive. You lack most of the biological triggers. Like, your hips are narrow, your mouth and breasts are small and..."  
All sympathy she had felt for him a moment ago went down the drain once more. "Sherlock, if you're trying to talk me round by listing my physiological disadvantages, let me tell you: This does not help your cause!" She took a deliberate step away from him, and this time he let her, sensing she needed the space. He raked a hand through his hair and looked around the roof, as if looking for someone to tell him how to proceed further.

Molly was about to tell him to leave it be, when he turned to her again with new found strength in his eyes, and he told her seriously, "My mum had another saying," he took again a step towards her, and this time she did not back away. "And it was," he tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear, "a thing of beauty is a joy forever."  
She held her breath and stared up at him with doe eyes, as a shiver ran down her spine when he touched her.  
He let his hand fall reluctantly to his side and stood a little taller, leaning out of her personal space.  
"You're probably right: I took you for granted. And I'm pretty sure that there will be instances in the future when it will seem like I do. But I want you to understand that this is not the case." He looked hard at her, conveying the truth of his statement, making her understand.  
"I guess I took you for granted, because I thought you would always be there; because of the person you are: truthful, loyal and kind."  
He did not wait for her to say something as well, but turned in the direction of scenery of London at night and then pointed a finger to the sky in the direction of St. Paul's Cathedral.  
"See that?"  
Molly had to take a step towards him to follow the line of this finger. But she knew instantly he meant the small twinkling object in the night sky. Hence she answered quizzically, not knowing where this was leading to, "That's the polestar."  
He nodded and dropped his hand again. "Yes. Despite popular misconception, I know a little bit about astronomy. I know that this is the polar star, which is used to navigate, because it's a constant, always there, helping you finding your way back. And this is what you are to me, Molly Hooper, my constant."  
Molly could not believe her ears. The power to speak had deserted her and so all she could do was turn her head slowly towards the man standing beside her, fearing he would disappear the moment she would lay eyes on him. She was afraid this was all a dream.

But when she looked at him he did not turn to dust or combust. He was looking at her intently, judging her reaction to his words. She could barely stand his mesmerizing gaze and all the emotions swirling in his eyes made her dizzy. His gaze flickered towards her mouth and back to her eyes. Molly's heartbeat was drumming so loud in her ears that she almost did not hear his low voice, "Forgive me."  
She scanned his face for any sign of deception, but she did find none.  
There was an unspoken yes in her eyes, and that was all that it took for Sherlock to descend his lips on hers. He kissed her gently and purposefully while snaking his hand around her waist to draw her closer. Surprised by his actions Molly went stiff at first, but recovered rather quickly and kissed him back with all her pent-up emotions.

So while the wind changed once again, the consulting detective and his pathologist were kissing on the roof of 17 Cherry Tree Lane. And when they finally drew apart for breath, Molly could not keep the silly smile off her face, because she knew Sherlock Holmes was far from being practically perfect, but he was hers.

* * *

**Epilogue to follow... **


	15. Chapter 15

**Epilogue**

Molly Hooper had always been torn between loving and hating Sundays. She still felt quite ambivalent about that day, but found that she didn't mind that much anymore, because now she had a partner ("If you'll ever refer to me as your boyfriend…") who did not complain about her sleeping in late and with whom walks in the park were actually fun. ("Let's play deduction…").

True, it was probably the strangest relationship one could imagine and normal people would've shake their heads, but she had no illusion that neither Sherlock nor she were to be considered normal.

She was just finishing her laundry (it did not escape her notice that a certain consulting detective had tried to smuggle his clothes into her washing machine), when her phone on the coffee table vibrated, indicating a new text.

MEET ME IN THE PARK IN 30 MINUTES. SH

Molly only shook her head because of his commanding tone. She knew that would never change, but she didn't mind. She had known exactly what she was getting herself into when she had agreed to be with him. Maybe not exactly…

ALRIGHT, SEE YOU SOON. MH XXX

She was about to turn around to get dressed properly when her phone vibrated again. Curiously she picked up the mobile. Sherlock normally did not bother with another reply after she had agreed to something.

_Maybe he's telling me to stop doing the stupid thing with the three Xs… _

But she could not have been more wrong, and the moment she read the message, her lips turned into a huge smile.

BRING YOUR KITE. SH

Yes, Molly Hooper now definitely loved Sundays.

**The End  
Credits roll to **_**Let's go fly a kite **_**;-)**

* * *

**A/N: When I started writing this silly little thing, I went through the script of Mary Poppins and was astonished, how many of her lines could have been uttered by our high functional sociopath just the same. Hence I did not hesitate to use some of them – as some of you have probably realized. I guess people who think themselves to be practically perfect are not so different after all. ;-)**

**Thanks to you all for reading, reviewing, alerts, participating in finding all the MP quotes and references, etc – YOU ROCK!**

**It was my pleasure and when I say pleasure I … mean IT!**


End file.
